


You've Got Kudos!

by ClassicHazel, Rhaegal (RhaegalKS)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Awkward Sexual Situations, Aziraphale betas fanfiction, Aziraphale gets an iPhone, Aziraphale is on Twitter, Aziraphale reads fanfiction, Aziraphale writes explicit fic, Bandstand but Happy, Conventions, Crack, Crowley says Ngk, Dinner at (not) the Ritz, Drunk Pepper, First Time, Fluff, Gabriel is a boner killer, Hand Jobs, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Life Imitating Art, M/M, Maddie is the formerly-pyjama-clad-demon-nun-guitarist-now-Beelzebub, Meta, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Post-Canon, Re-enacting fanfiction, Sauntering Vaguely Kisswards, Sex in sock suspenders, Sex in the Bentley, Sex with Snake Form Crowley (Good Omens), Sexting, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Snake-on-Angel-action, Social Media, South Downs implied, Spontaneous snaking, The Ineffable Con, Wall Slam, cold open, kink bingo, ngk, short-lived angst, unapologetic fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-01-13 12:15:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 67,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21243926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClassicHazel/pseuds/ClassicHazel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhaegalKS/pseuds/Rhaegal
Summary: Aziraphale ventures onto the Internet and discovers something alarming: there are people writing stories about him and Crowley! Aziraphale dives into fandom and discovers he has a knack for writing Ineffable Husbands fanfiction. His popularity leads him to be invited to a convention - for which he hasjustthe right costume...!





	1. The Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> We apologise for writing Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett out of history, but we hope they would consider being merged into Pepper a compliment! We are also aware of another fic with the same title; apologies, but the zine for The Ineffable Con had already gone to print when the 'other' fic was posted!

As if it were ever in any doubt, Pippin Galadriel Moonchild was a success. With a first-class English degree from Durham, and a work ethic that put even the best LinkedIn humblebrag to shame, Pepper had travelled the world as an overseas correspondent with the BBC. In her childhood, Pepper had always thought Adam’s love for Tadfield quaint. Tales of Amy Johnson and Ann Bancroft permeated her earliest memories, mingling with Famous Five adventures, the combined force of which ensured that Tadfield was the last place Pepper wanted to stay. Too small, too English, too… safe. Strange to hear the village gossip, then, that Pepper was not only returning, but had purchased a small cottage adjacent to the last remaining Post Office in an English village. Everyone in Pepper’s life – and she didn’t entertain the comments of strangers – knew better than to ask if she was returning to Tadfield to “settle down”, ideally with a “nice man”. Her desire to have a space to call her own was one borne of faceless hotels, united in their garish carpets, generic pictures and ghastly ‘cuisine’. Pepper saw a future of Liberty print bed linen and Penhaligon’s candles, a fish kettle (whether she knew how to use it or not) gracing her marble worktop and a summer house at the end of her garden.

That future required gainful employment; despite a healthy savings account, ‘location, location, location’ was never truer than in Oxfordshire. With the same speed and decisiveness an ordinary person might decide on a pair of new shoes, Pepper decided to turn to scriptwriting. Her summer house became a studio, in which her thoughts kept returning to the best adventure she knew of, one that Johnson and Bancroft couldn’t hold a candle to: The Them.

********

Aziraphale was positively _ruffled_ by the volume of new customers visiting the bookshop recently. The only saving grace was, the majority seemed to be wearing tartan. _How thrilling, to be back in fashion!_ he thought. What was quite the opposite of thrilling was, without question, the people. Often in twos and threes – usually with the aforementioned tartan, or, bizarrely, in sunglasses, regardless of the weather – they came in, looking at the books, yes, but also looking at him. He had overheard comments such as, “Check out that waistcoat, it’s  
IDENTICAL,” and “I wonder where they found him? Reckon he works for Amazon?”

Aziraphale was aware of Amazon – what bookseller was not? – but found the thought of books in faceless warehouses so utterly depressing that he refused to even contemplate the thought of attempting to make a purchase, let alone working for them.

The combination of tartan, sunglasses (which reminded him of Crowley, of course, not that he would ever explain to Crowley why he loved the summer months so, beyond ice cream being more readily available…) and the perpetual question, “Do you have good omens?” made Aziraphale curious. He had established, from a gaggle of customers that marvelled (and took pictures of) his cufflinks, of all things, that good omens was, in fact, “Good Omens”, a popular book and recent television show. If Aziraphale was in the book selling business to sell books, he could have made a fortune from this one title alone, it would seem! He wondered, though, whether he had over-miracled the shop, as, when quizzed further about the premise of the book, his would-be customers often became bashful, or exclaimed that - SURELY! - he must know better than them, and beat a hasty retreat, mumbling about an “immersive experience”, or “cheaper online, anyway”, even though, on this occasion, he would have liked them to stay. It was very flattering to have recognition that he was a connoisseur of all things literary... but it only served to fan the flames of his curiosity.

Even if he had cared to, it would be near-impossible for Aziraphale to compare his prices to those of Amazon on the hulking brick he called his computer. Once a year, he miracled it into life, which was quite enough for him, thank you very much (Aziraphale was always prompt with his tax returns, and had nearly been reduced to tears when online submission became mandatory). Why would you forgo the scents, sounds and sensations of a shop? When he had broached this with Crowley, Crowley had looked at him, aghast, and prattled on about germs and noise and “what if they don’t have what you want?” and... well, Aziraphale wouldn’t be asking him to join him for a stroll down Regent Street any time soon, put it that way.

He did, however, care to use his computer to explore this “Good Omens” phenomenon more closely. Starting his computer was a miracle and a wait, so Aziraphale made his customary cocoa. He chose the big, blue “E”, as Crowley had shown him, and waited, whilst Bing loaded. A cursory search for “Good Omens” returned many links about television (Heaven forfend!) and news of a petition involving something or someone called “Netflix”. Trying again, with “Good Omens plot”, Aziraphale was rewarded with a Wikipedia entry:

_“It is the coming of the End Times: the Apocalypse is near, and Final Judgement will soon descend upon the human species. This comes as a bit of bad news to the angel Aziraphale (who was the guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden)...”_

Aziraphale dropped his cocoa, the tiny wings on his mug breaking irreparably as they met with the edge of his antique desk. Aziraphale paid no heed, reeling from the ever-growing certainty that _he was VERY FAMILIAR with this story_. Fingers flying across the keyboard as fast as an annual internet user could manage, Aziraphale, desperate to be wrong, searched for more information. Searching “Aziraphale story” made him wish he had turned the cursed thing off and banished it to Alpha Centauri. “Aziraphale is in love with Crowley in Good Omens,” written by someone called Mary Sue, hit him with a force usually only associated with Gabriel’s most acerbic comments.

Feverently assailing every blue underlined section as Crowley had taught him (Crowley!) to find new material, Aziraphale had no time to pause and examine the implications of this revelation. He was down the rabbit hole now. Once, many moons ago, Aziraphale had explained to Crowley (who he was resolutely not thinking of, presently) that he found his methods of expression a little difficult to follow. Many of these articles were the same, requiring Aziraphale to search in a separate window (Crowley never expected him to need more than one tab) for terms like “shipping” and “fanfic”.

When the “Organization for Transformative Works” came up as a result, Aziraphale was so relieved to see something that sounded like a leading authority that he could even overlook the erroneous “z” in “organisation”. Searching within a website for the first time (a non- celestial miracle if ever there was one), Aziraphale resumed his search for “Good Omens”, expecting, as one would of an organisation, contact details, terms and conditions - in fact, ideally, a cancellation policy for this farce, and memory erasure, to boot. That, he did not find. Instead, he found a website full of stories about... himself. Or, at least, someone very much like him, but doing things that he had most certainly never done.

In a way that he hadn’t pored over text since Agnes Nutter, Aziraphale devoured AO3. It felt like the authors had seen into his dreams – his soul – and bared all for the world to see. Not only did they seem to know his deepest, darkest secret, they all had the fantastical notion that Crowley felt the same way. The first time Aziraphale encountered a scene in which his clumsy declaration of love was met with “Angel, I’ve loved you since Eden,” his belly did a strange flip-flop that had nothing to do with the fact he hadn’t eaten for an hour.

Clicking on the underlined words “First Kiss”, he was delighted to discover there were hundreds, if not thousands, of iterations of that scene. They often took place in the very room in which he now sat, which was… exhilarating. Sometimes he was the first to confess his love, sometimes it was Crowley… but it was always, always reciprocated.

To Aziraphale, it seemed like tags (which, he learnt, set the expectation of a text) were the very epitome of modern parlance: bewildering. “Denial is a river in Egypt” (he knew this, and couldn’t see what on Earth it had to do with the content of the story itself). “Love is a spare pot of marmalade” (he didn’t agree with this, finding quince jelly a more palatable option). “I will go down with this ship” (when there was not the merest hint of water, never mind an actual vessel, in the whole piece).

After several glasses of red wine (yes, it was three in the afternoon, yes it was a Wednesday, but cocoa just wasn’t going to cut the mustard here), Aziraphale began the ‘Explicit’ section. Here, there were stories that went (improbably!) beyond the first kiss, into activities he had only dared to contemplate alone, in the dead of night, after Crowley had gone home and he had drunk just enough that his imagination (and his hand) ran wild.

Some of the tags remained unclear (“BAMF Aziraphale” was a prime example), whilst others were as clear as day (“wing kink” left little to the imagination). One tag flummoxed Aziraphale beyond all others. _“PILLOW PRINCIPALITY?!”_, he thought. He knew that he had chosen a softer body than he could have, but ‘pillowy’ he most certainly was not. It took him three stories before he understood that, actually, he might have preferred his initial assessment of the situation.

Over the course of hours, of days, Aziraphale learnt the difference between crack and smut, edging and rimming, a service top and a power bottom. The more he read, the more amused he became by the speculations of the authors. Yes, Crowley had wasted a miracle cleaning his jacket (his heart skipped at the thought) but usually, Aziraphale just unbuttoned, like everyone else.

Aziraphale was midway through a particularly steamy story involving chains in the Bastille when a surge of demonic energy (and a bell above the door) alerted him to Crowley’s presence. He managed to minimise the browser window, but the computer was still visibly on when Crowley slunk into the back room.

“Just doing my accounts,” Aziraphale announced, trying (perhaps too hard) to sound breezy.

“Wouldn’t have thought that would take long,” Crowley said, slouching on the sofa. “When did you last sell a book?”

Aziraphale declined to answer that, busying himself instead with fetching some wine, painfully conscious of glaring Windows 95 logo drawing attention to an incriminating minimised window mere feet away from where Crowley sprawled. And, oh... how he sprawled. Fantasies involving Crowley draped over that sofa were not exactly new to Aziraphale, but, having spent several days immersed in graphic descriptions of said fantasy, it was rather distracting to now be presented with the reality. It was a true miracle his hands didn’t shake as he handed Crowley his glass.

Safely seated across the room, Aziraphale searched in vain for the words to describe how he had spent the last few days. The natural thing to do if you find something amusing, perplexing or endearing is to share it with your best friend. But what if you find something bewildering, yearning, hankering... arousing?

If only Crowley were in the habit of reading books, he might have discovered this “Good Omens” phenomenon himself, sparing Aziraphale the need to bring it up. But he couldn’t possibly have known, or he would surely be gleefully relishing his newfound fame, instead of recounting the entire week he had apparently spent gluing coins to pavements.

It was a childish tale, but Aziraphale was content to let Crowley talk, leaving him free to look and his mind to wander. Crowley was especially beautiful when talking animatedly about his particular brand of evil, which was really no more than low-grade annoyance. He had removed his sunglasses, providing Aziraphale with the perfect opportunity to enjoy the intensity of his serpentine eyes. He thought about how those eyes were described in fanfiction and had to conclude that writers did them a disservice.

About Aziraphale, though, writers were overly optimistic. In reality, he fell short of the standards fanfiction held him to. Not forthright, not about this, and too daunted by the crushing weight of six thousand years to do anything to change the course of their relationship now. But, he could wonder. What might it be like to be possessed of the confidence he sometimes exhibited in those stories? What would happen if he crawled into  
Crowley’s lap, right now, grabbed his face, and kissed him? He knew what he hoped would happen next, but, in reality, Crowley would be so shocked he’d probably unleash some demonic curse that would discorporate him, or at least leave them both dishevelled for far less enjoyable reasons than Aziraphale hoped.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Crowley observed, interrupting the flow of Aziraphale’s thoughts.

“Oh, thinking about a book I read earlier,” said Aziraphale, skirting dangerously close to the truth.

“Well, that’s better than thinking about accounts, I suppose.”

Aziraphale’s gaze flickered guiltily to his computer. He took a large gulp of wine and, emboldened, added, “In fact, I was thinking I might write one.” He half expected Crowley to ridicule the idea, as was his wont whenever Aziraphale picked up a hobby, but instead he looked somewhere between amused and intrigued. 

“You should,” he agreed. “I might even read it.”

_No you most certainly will not_, Aziraphale thought as he gave a noncommittal hum.

After Crowley left that night, Aziraphale, fuelled by newly vivid fantasies involving a demon sprawled over a dusty bookshop sofa, returned to his computer. He had come to think of himself as something of a leading authority in this odd online subculture (although, no matter how often he saw it, “Bottom Brian Clough” would continue to confound him). After all, who knew the machinations of angels and demons in love, if not Aziraphale himself? He cracked his knuckles, and began to write.


	2. The Conversation

Aziraphale was not being boastful in his opinions about his fics (it took him a while to stop calling them ‘stories’) and was now the holder of an AO3 account in the name of TemptMeWithCrepes. He had first posted a drabble, lampshading the tropes of ‘hurt/comfort’ and ‘only one bed’ (and clearly demonstrating his grasp of the ‘lingo’). On the annual opening of his emails, nestled amongst the badly misspelled attempts to sell genital enhancement products (to which he always politely replied, saying that assistance was not required, but thanking them for their offer, and recommending a dictionary) was the receipt for his tax returns. There was also a series of emails with the subject lines “[AO3] You’ve got kudos!” and “[AO3] Comment on Serpentine Desiresss.”

People liked his writing! Never one to disappoint his public (unless they were attempting to purchase a book), Aziraphale wrote more. The comments and kudos kept coming, hailing him as “the next Copperbadge” and his fics as “brilliant, like Bangor”. He knew what neither of these things meant, but could take solace in “brilliant”, alongside the other positive messages that flooded his now well-used inbox. Some of the comments, “DEAD”, for example, were inexplicable; Aziraphale would only return to writing once he had ascertained that the poster had commented more recently on someone else’s story and was, therefore, still very much alive. 

All of the fic that Aziraphale penned became explicit, with a capital “E” (and, usually, a capital “X”, “P”, “L”, “I”, “C”, “I” AND “T”, too). Crowley’s tongue, Crowley’s arse, Crowley’s eyes...Crowley. The more outrageously explicitly he wrote, the more people devoured it. He particularly enjoyed writing Crowley in his serpentine form doing wonderfully wicked and probably implausible things with dual appendages. Despite this being a niche predilection, the effusive comments poured in. Six thousand years of observing, thinking, _wanting_, came out through the medium of TemptMeWithCrepes. 

********

If Aziraphale had thought that having an outlet for his fantasies would ease the pressure he felt in his chest (not to mention somewhat lower down) every time he saw Crowley, he was sorely mistaken. There was barely anything Crowley did or anywhere Crowley went that he hadn’t read, imagined, or written in erotic circumstances. The bookshop, of course, but also St James’ Park (up against that tree over there, with the judicious application of frivolous miracles keeping the passers by oblivious), the Ritz (oh, that fic where they booked a suite for their first time!), even the theatre (Crowley would _never_ burn a theatre down, of course - the nonsense these writers came up with!).

It was all so _easy_ in fanfiction. From the topic first being broached, they could be naked in the space of a few paragraphs. In reality, how was one supposed to transition from “yes, dear, it’s lovely that you’re keeping up low-level demonic deeds in your retirement” to “by the way, I think it’s about time we, well... fucked”? While Aziraphale had a penchant for explicit stories, his favourites were those that made it seem so _easy_ to just...get on with it. But, he knew, from one or two aborted attempts at lovemaking, that it really was _not _that easy. He could write the hottest, the smuttiest, the _filthiest _stories (his personal collection of erotica helped, naturally), and yet those that he wanted to read were those that told you which way to tilt your head when you kissed, whose legs went where when horizontal, how to not be embarrassed by the noises, when you should (indeed, _if _you should) take your socks off...the list went on. 

Sometimes, he wanted to think less about what went where and more about what felt more… natural. After a particularly pleasant evening together, working through bottles of wine, or an evening stroll in the park, Aziraphale would go in search of softer fic. There was a delightful story in which they raised a family of snakes together, and many ‘holding hands on the bus’ stories (which had happened, and Aziraphale revisited the memory often, though - sadly - it had not led to anything further that night… nor any night since). The ‘Established Relationship’ tag led to an abundance of stories in which they moved to a cottage in the South Downs.

One author who particularly excelled in this arena was GoodOldFashionedLoverBoy. In their fics, the established - and very much in love - couple enjoyed tartan-rugged picnics where they sipped champagne, watched beautiful meteor showers and fantasised about a life together on Alpha Centauri. The way they wrote Aziraphale made the real angel blush; the fics themselves never even strayed close to a Mature rating, yet they made his whole body ache for more. There were lingering glances and casual brushes of hands, but the fics always ended with an agonising ‘fade to black’.

Aziraphale had learned first hand the gratification of a comment, so he clicked into the textbox and typed:

_Your fic! Almost perfect! Your description of Crowley in the Bentley, gazing into Aziraphale’s eyes made my heart beat a little faster. Two things, though, if I may? Firstly, I really, honestly and truly believe that Aziraphale would never shy away from Crowley’s eyes. He loves him, as a snake, as a demon, as...Crowley. Secondly, my dear writer: what on Earth happens next?!_

The reply came within a matter of minutes:

_Crepes!!! Wow, I can’t believe you read my fic! You’re, like, the master of writing Aziraphale and Crowley! But yeah, I’m afraid, as much as I hope Aziraphale would learn to love Crowley despite the demon thing, the eyes are just too much of a reminder. Sorry!_

Well, that would never do. Without thinking, Aziraphale hit the ‘Reply’ button.

_If I could write the beauty of Crowley’s eyes, and, in fresh numbers number all his graces, the age to come would say, 'this author lies; such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.’ Remember, dear LoverBoy, that Crowley does not have an “earthly face”, but the most blessed of celestial countenances._

******** 

Whilst Aziraphale would never admit the sin of pride, it was an enjoyment of the amount of fondness others had for his work that led him to Twitter. To be able to join in the conversation and share snippets of his reality (“I truly believe that angels and demons wouldn’t waste miracles on undressing, but I do see where you are coming from - no pun intended - with the lubricant”) made him feel… important. He rationalised it as a service to the fanfiction community, rather than having to admit to hubris, supported by a recent direct message from LoverBoy:

Aziraphale stared at the screen for a moment, confused, before typing his response:

Aziraphale watched the ellipsis disappear and reappear several times, before going to make himself some more cocoa. When he returned, the screen held a new message:

Aziraphale set his second-favourite mug down so hard he feared for its integrity, too (his third mug was a travesty; he must be more careful). He considered his reply. Aziraphale was certainly not a prude, but broadcasting and conversing about carnal pleasures were two very different beasts. His desire to help overcame his embarrassment and he replied: 

Aziraphale read the last message again. And again. And a few times more. He sipped his now-lukewarm cocoa and closed his eyes. He could picture it, almost unbearably vividly; Crowley pacing nervously, as he attempted his speech, tripping over his words (‘Ngk’ was an accurate tag, if ever there was one). To avoid any deeper contemplation of his reaction to the imaginary situation, Aziraphale’s eyes snapped open, and he looked back at the screen. 

Aziraphale leaned back in his chair and let out a long, shaky breath. His hand was sticky and the post-orgasmic bliss was being overtaken by the creeping burn of shame at what he’d just done. With a _stranger_. The warmth drained from him as now abject mortification required him to re-read what he’d written. Somewhere in the middle he’d got carried away in his bookshelf fantasy and switched to the first person. At least LoverBoy had responded in kind! “I”, they’d written. “You”. Damn decent of them to ‘get into character’...

Oh dear.

The thread on the screen suddenly jumped back to the bottom as a new message appeared:

Aziraphale hurriedly closed the browser and miracled away the mess - an entirely appropriate use of a frivolous miracle, given the circumstances. It was only a small lie, he reasoned. Perhaps he could call Crowley and ask him to join him for a glass (or ten) of Barolo? Although it was rather late, and Crowley did have a habit of sleeping in the nighttime hours... perhaps it was best not to disturb him. Despite the weight in his chest, he allowed his mind to drift over what might happen if Crowley _were _here, and willing. If Aziraphale were more like the fictionalised version of himself that he wrote into his fics, he’d know exactly what to do. To take his mind off the… situation, he opened a new Microsoft Word document and began to write.


	3. The Meeting

By morning, he had ten thousand words of pure smut involving interchangeable genitalia and more than a little ‘snake-on-angel’ action. Ready to post it on AO3, he opened Internet Explorer. Twitter was still open on last night’s embarrassing exchange, but now with a new message at the bottom:

Aziraphale was not the only one who had been up all night writing erotica, apparently. With a smirk, he replied:

A minute later, the computer dinged to let him know that he had a new email from [LoverBoy4004@gmail.com](mailto:LoverBoy4004@gmail.com): 

_Hey Crepes,_

_Thanks for your help (and your company…) last night. It was… inspiring! Attached is my take on the old bookshop trope. Please be kind!_

_LoverBoy_

_PS: I saw on your profile that you live in London. Would you be up for meeting sometime?_

Aziraphale read that postscript again and again. A part of him was curious to see what sort of person wrote these achingly romantic stories (and, what sort of a person participated in such late night… discussions). Perhaps Aziraphale’s resemblance to the angel of their fictional works could be written off as what had learned was termed ‘cosplay’? There was something appealing, too, about the idea of finally sharing his thoughts with another. He had never been able to speak about any of this before, and now here was someone who understood, who had read - and enjoyed! - his most torrid fantasies.

Aziraphale opened the attached Word document and began to read.

********

_The angel’s lips brush over his ear and pour forth whispered endearments that flow like molten gold into Crowley’s bloodstream, warming him from within and gathering in his groin to fill the turgid flesh that strains towards Aziraphale...._

Aziraphale was so startled by the bell over the shop door that he vanished his computer into oblivion. He hastily picked up the closest book and was studiously pretending to read it when Crowley slid into the back room.

“It is customary to telephone before turning up unannounced at a person’s residence,” Aziraphale said, without looking up from his book. His careful veneer of nonchalance barely withstood the lewd imagery currently racing through his head, and he hoped Crowley couldn’t tell that his heart was stubbornly insisting on racing.

“Actually, it’s customary to _text_,” said Crowley as he dropped into his sofa, “but you won’t discover mobile phones until the day they finally switch off landlines.”

Aziraphale carefully set down his book, realising too late that it was _Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management_. He tried to discreetly push it under some papers on his desk. Contrary to Crowley’s assertion, he did know about mobile phones; people on Twitter talked about them constantly. He wasn’t sure how they could read fic on those tiny little screens, let alone write it, but he could see the appeal of not being confined to his uncomfortable computer chair when messaging with LoverBoy...

“I am quite capable of keeping pace with the humans,” he said. “I simply choose not to. Where would one procure a mobile telephonic device?”

Crowley looked at him, reminding Aziraphale that he had a serpentine form (snakes!) owing to his almost-unhinged jaw. “Uuuh… there’s an Apple store on Regent Street…”

So it was that an hour later found them on their usual bench in St James’ Park, huddled over a new iPhone XS, whilst Crowley demonstrated text messaging.

“You don’t need the rest of these buttons,” Crowley was saying. “Just ‘Phone’ and ‘Messages’.” He indicated the two green icons.

_Which one is Twitter? _Aziraphale desperately wanted to ask, but couldn’t bear the resulting Spanish inquisition. He settled instead for asking if he could file his tax return on this tiny computer, which resulted in a debate about which of their former sides was responsible for taxes (conclusion: both), and prompted Crowley to show him Safari, “the same as the big blue ‘E’, angel…”. That will do it, thought Aziraphale; he’d worry about ‘applications’ later. 

********

Later, it struck Aziraphale as rather amusing that a day on Regent’s Street with Crowley was not as bad as he had feared. He had enjoyed Crowley mocking the overly-helpful Apple Store employees, asking trivialities like which way up the phone should be held and how to answer a call (“The red button? You should always press the red button…?”). In reality, his enjoyment was less in the exasperation of the employees (he was still an angel, after all) and more in the fact that it saved him asking what were, clearly, amazingly obvious questions to anyone other than Aziraphale himself. A part of him allowed himself to wonder whether his education was the reason behind Crowley’s mischief on this occasion; after all, he _was _just a _little _bit of a good person. Yet...that way, madness lay. A sumptuous lunch in Aubaine, complete with “selfie” on his new phone did not a date make. True, Aziraphale had got a little closer than strictly necessary to Crowley during the aforementioned selfie, but the restaurant was designated as “Instagram-worthy”; it seemed rude not to participate (Aziraphale had not yet ventured into Instagram, but liked to be prepared). True, Aziraphale’s unnecessary heart seemed to have found its purpose whenever he saw Crowley recently, merging his fantasies with his reading material, but...but.

True, he seemed to be in love with Crowley.

The realisation was less of a crashing tsunami and more of a lapping wave, one that had been tugging at the edges of his mind for...millennia. Aziraphale sighed; pragmatically, it would seem, this was not a new problem. What was rather new, not to mention unexpected, was that LoverBoy had sent another email:

_PPS: To be clear, that was an offer of a date. I’m not in a relationship at the moment; there was someone, but we have been dancing around the subject for ages. I’m ready to...dance to a different tune and wondered if you’d care for a spin? _😉

This was really all too much. If reading his emails was to act as a distraction from thinking about Crowley, it had failed miserably. He was in a catch-22 (a small smile; he did enjoy a literary comparison); whilst meeting LoverBoy may cure him of his Crowley conundrum, meeting LoverBoy also felt like...cheating. 

His reply was swift, and surprisingly painful to write, considering they had just ‘met’:

_LoverBoy, how kind. Regrettably, there is someone else, for me. I think that he is unaware of the situation...yet, sadly, I am not. Friends, though, dear boy, I hope; would you care to join me - _

Aziraphale stopped. 

He had been made aware by his ‘pocket friends’ of a convention, happening in Lane End, Buckinghamshire. It had been a delightful thought to visit Anathema and Newton again, perhaps even to call on any erstwhile Them still in the area (although he had heard Wensley was now a purveyor of over 100 flavours of ice cream in Norfolk and Brian was Head of Quality Control at Walkers, in Leicestershire). He had booked his ticket to The Ineffable Con poste haste, not in the slightest bit influenced by the photographers that frequented the bookshop remarking on how perfect his “costume” would be, because vanity was a sin. Should he invite LoverBoy? In all honesty, if they were to meet, he felt it would be more comfortable in a place where there would be other people; the situation was less likely to be misconstrued. They may have shared… an evening, but it could never be anything more. 

Decisively - one could never have too many friends, after all - Aziraphale continued:

_\- at a convention? A little bit of fun, I hope - there will be costumes, contests, conversation - and possibly crepes! It would be lovely to see you there!_ [_https://theineffablecon.org.uk/_](https://theineffablecon.org.uk/)

Later, with cocoa in hand and slippers on foot, Aziraphale checked his email before returning to his latest fic. A reply, short, yet perturbingly thrilling:

_Sure - see you there..._

********

Getting to Buckinghamshire without Crowley’s help took a few minor miracles, but a bus, a train and a taxi later, Aziraphale found himself at a corporate-looking conference centre in the countryside. The receptionist directed him to a nondescript building behind them. Nervously, he ventured inside.

It was a cacophony of noise, with groups of people talking, laughing. Some of them wore imitations of his beige clothing, others were dressed in black, with vivid red hair.

“Oh, absolute goodness!” a fluffy-haired cocoa-carrying woman in a reasonable facsimile of his own clothes cried, coming to stand in front of him. “Your costume is truly wonderful! You even did the wear around the buttons!” She reached towards him, and then hesitated. “May I?”

“Of course, my dear.”

She touched the buttons of his waistcoat almost reverently, muttering things like “the buttons are spot on!” and “oh, good heavens, the pocket watch!”

He heard someone shout, “It’s the bookshop dude! I _knew_ he worked for Amazon!”

“Oh, most definitely not,” Aziraphale bristled. “Just a fan.”

Before long, there was a small crowd gathered around him, cooing over his jacket, his hair, his - “You’ve even got tartan socks!”

These people were _much_ more forward than those in the shop, but being the centre of attention like this was really rather exciting so Aziraphale basked in it for as long as he could, before he really did need to consider it vanity.

“That coat is _immaculate_,” someone was murmuring, fingering the lapel.

“Why, thank you!” Aziraphale preened. “I’ve kept it in tip-top shape for over two hundred years!”

It was a slip of the tongue, but the best thing was, people _laughed_. He could be completely straightforward here and people thought he was playing a role; it was _liberating_.

“Excuse me, the new Aziraphale over there,” called a voice from behind him. Aziraphale turned around to see an officious-looking blonde women dressed - horrifyingly - as Gabriel, standing behind the registration desk.

“Good afternoon, my dear,” he greeted her with a smile that was only a little forced. Despite the blonde hair, her energy was the very embodiment of Gabriel.

“Badge name?” Gabriel demanded.

“Uh, TemptMeWithCrepes.”

“Ah, yes! Quite the author… I have heard your snake porn is second to none. Your ability to stand in line and _actually queue for a badge_, though…” Gabriel rolled her eyes and stared. 

“Ah, yes, I suppose…” Aziraphale fiddled with the chain of his pocket watch nervously. He hadn’t really thought this through, hadn’t counted on having to discuss his pornography _out loud_, particularly with Gabriel. Perhaps using his AO3 name on his badge had been a terrible idea...

Gabriel was drumming her fingers on the desk, waiting for him to take his bag and badge.

“Chr-, Sa-, Someone help me, not only can you not _queue_, now you have lost the ability to _move altogether_?! Honestly, _Crepes,_” she said, cuttingly, “quizzes to have, cocoa to drink, people to chastise, I don’t have all evening. Move along! Move along!”

Aziraphale, feeling suitably _Gabrielled_, took his bag and badge and moved to the side. At the mention of “Crepes”, one of the red-headed attendees had come over to express their (overenthusiastic) enjoyment of his snake fics, saying how one of the convention chairs was _seriously_ into it and there were apparently snake porn colouring pages around here somewhere… Aziraphale could actually feel the blush creeping across his face and finally understood what people meant when they said they wanted the ground to open up and swallow them whole.

As disturbing as the thought was, it was Fanatical or Gabriel at this present juncture; everyone else seemed occupied. 

“You again…” Gabriel stared. “I am sure that I gave you everything you could possibly need, because - why wouldn’t I have done?”

“I wanted to ask,” said Aziraphale, twisting his badge around, “I am meeting someone. Has GoodOldFashionedLoverBoy checked in? He sometimes goes by LoverBoy?”

Gabriel scanned her list. “Not yet. But, if you’re that keen to know who’s here and who’s not, why don’t you help out on the desk?”

Aziraphale liked the idea of being useful (he liked less the idea of working with Gabriel), and putting a desk in between himself and the crowd of excitable people seemed like an excellent idea. He moved over to the other side. Gabriel - or Bethany, she introduced herself as - showed him the list where he was to check off names (“Exactly like this, with this pen. If you lose the pen… well, I wouldn’t, if I were you…”). How the badges were ordered (“By number, _obviously_”), where the vegan options were and how to hand out the bags (“There’s no need to be polite, we’re about accuracy, not friendship, on this desk”) was ‘explained’, in a series of rapid-fire bursts. Fortunately, he found solace in the food-related instruction, which had him excitedly checking inside his own bag – chocolates! He happily unwrapped a chocolate and settled down to his new job.

It was quite a fun job, as it turned out, once you got used to Gabe. He got to welcome everyone and, while he couldn’t always answer their questions, he soon found the map in the back of the programme book inside his bag. Pointing at that made him very useful indeed.

He was checking in a rather lovely young lady with the odd badge name “Anathemmawww” when he heard a low voice state his name as “LoverBoy.” A constricting combination of excitement and nerves clutched at Aziraphale’s insides, and he had to take a couple of deep, steadying breaths before he forced himself to look up.

LoverBoy was tall and slender, dressed entirely in black, with vibrant red hair. Okay, so he was dressed as - 

No.

It _was_ Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first three parts of this fic were printed in The Ineffable Con zine. The rest is a work in progress - bear with us!


	4. The Demon

For the briefest of moments, time froze. Crowley met Aziraphale’s eyes, eyes he would have known anywhere, and his voice caught in his throat with the weight of too much left unsaid. 

“Honestly, “ chimed in the Gabriel, “bag, badge, card, move. How many times do we have to have this conversation?!”

The spell was broken; Crowley snatched his proffered bag, stole his badge from the desk and fled, finding solace in a corridor full of bedrooms and, mercifully, no people. Despite breathing and heartbeats being unnecessarily human endeavours, Crowley truly believed that, even if he had not chosen the most corporeal form possible for the event, both would have manifested just to remind him of how shocking this turn of events was. His thoughts, jumbled, raced through his mind: 

Aziraphale, here.

What. The Actual. Fuck.

Did he even know what this convention was? That there were people here who _wrote and drew porn WITH THEM IN IT_?! If not, he was about to find out. It would have been hilarious if it wasn’t already so mortifying that Crowley was here, too, and that Aziraphale had _seen him_.

Crowley found his room and closed the door behind him. He leaned back against it and let out a groan. As panic began to take hold of him, he considered how he had got into this sorry state in the first place. 

********

“My face is on the side of a bus!” Crowley had exclaimed, when he had met Pepper in their usual haunt of The Enterprise.

The vagaries of publishing a screenplay are a dark art in themselves, whether or not Satan features in the story, but Pepper’s quintessential determination stayed true to form and seemed to leave no room for manoeuvre. A deal had been signed, with Amazon and the BBC, and there seemed to be no going back.

It had been bad enough when it was just the book. At least that could fly under the radar; no one read books any more, after all. Even Aziraphale, who was in the habit of reading books, could be trusted not to pay too much attention to modern science fiction and fantasy. He hoped. But television?

The only reason that Crowley had not just smited Amazon and all who sailed on her was that David Tennant was a rather _stylish_ representation of oneself, after all, and Amazon suitably evil (not that he would admit either to his former friend Pepper, or anyone else, for that matter). Furthermore, Crowley was positive that Aziraphale would never happen upon “Good Omens”; his abhorrence for both modern literature and television would ensure Crowley could let the hype die down, then move on, with Aziraphale none the wiser, half of the profits and, hopefully, with everyone seeing more than a passing resemblance between him and the man that played Casanova.

His hope for Aziraphale’s ignorance was scuppered somewhat, however, by the bloody double decker buses passing up and down Oxford Street, perilously close to the bookshop, with their faces emblazoned two stories high upon the side. 

“It’s not your face,” Pepper pointed out, reasonably. “It’s David Tennant’s.”

“But it’s obviously _us_!”

Pepper looked unconvinced. “They’re actors. No offence, but they’re considerably more attractive than you two.”

“We’re _celestial beings_,” Crowley protested.

Pepper shrugged. “Are you going to eat those chips?”

Crowley growled and pushed the plate towards her. Giving his blessing would belie the upstanding demon that he was, but oh, he would have his revenge. He considered swapping her birth control for Smarties, but thought that, even for someone who invented the M25, it was perhaps one step too far. He could ensure that her tights would perpetually be _slightly_ too short, though, and that she always ran out of petrol at the least opportune time. Perhaps, if he _really_ wanted to twist the knife, he would ensure that her every tweet would be replied to by a stream of mansplainers. 

Crowley had been a social media user from the beginning; indeed, he had come up with the concept, much to the bafflement but eventual approval of Hell. A place where one incendiary comment lit a thousand - more! - fires that burned for days was the low-level mischief that Crowley was renowned for. Twitter was his preference for personal use; Twitter didn’t require photos in the same was the others seemed to. Filters helped to cover his reptilian eyes, but the puppy ears and flower crowns were too much: Twitter it was for Crowley.

So, when Pepper’s work made the small screen, he hadn’t been able to resist seeking out the #GoodOmens hashtag, and, from there, had ventured into the weird and wonderful world of fandom. Mere days after the release, the Internet was filled with detailed descriptions of six thousand years of his wildest fantasies. Crowley devoured them. When he could devour no more, he added to them, which had led him, for better or worse, to TemptMeWithCrepes. 

_CREPES..._

The plan that Crowley had formed withered and died. It was one borne of another late night (read: drunken) conversation with Pepper. Crowley made a mental note to never speak to Pepper again; not drinking again seemed unnecessarily cruel, given the weekend he was about to have. In the wee small hours of the morning, after more whisky than was deemed survivable, she had decided that what Crowley and Crepes needed was… he shuddered as the string of awful euphemisms came flooding back to him. He could hear her slur, a drunken smile on her face and a fiendish glint in her eye. “Just, hit it and quit it, Crowley. Smash and dash. Pump…” she took a swig “...and dump.” 

He never should have told her about Crepes. Crepes had said he just wanted to be friends; he had been abundantly clear about that. ”Friends with benefits,” smirked Pepper. “Who invites someone to a hotel unless they’re planning a repeat of…” She tapered off, but her gesticulations made her thoughts quite clear. 

Bearing in mind, then, that he was, at heart, a demon, he had come to Lane End with the purpose of a small temptation. After a night researching ‘friends with benefits’ on Reddit, Crowley decided that he would (he WOULD) aim to ‘encourage’ Crepes to repeat the night they had shared, but this time in person - if only to try and lessen his feelings for one bookshop proprietor/angel. The night in question seemed to have been, to this point, a ‘one-off’; their correspondence thereafter remained as professional as the beta-ing of softcore porn could get. But, in the face of an actual demon, _surely_ Crepes would agree to a… dalliance? 

Still hiding in his bland room in the even blander conference centre, he could hear the hubbub of people enjoying themselves. People that, Crowley would have put money on the fact, would have the first clue how to actually _have_ a dalliance...unlike Crowley. David Tennant might have made a wonderful Casanova; Crowley, whatever the similarities elsewhere, quite outstandingly did not. What a ridiculous idea.

Crowley rested his head on the wall, closed his eyes, and sighed. 

********

The easiest thing to do was to leave. Crowley metally retraced his steps, back down the corridor, past the registration desk (Aziraphale!) and out of the double doors. He could be back with the Bentley in a moment and, with a miracle, back in his apartment even sooner. He would dearly loved to have risked a miracle to get safely out to the car park, but the evening was already too complicated and it wasn’t even 6pm.

Considering snaking, but deciding sneaking was less risky, Crowley stepped out of his room and made a break for the door. A diminutive Crowley (this would take some getting used to…), but with far more fantastic hair, stopped him in his tracks: “Tea? I’ll show you how to make it, if you’d like - it’s all about warming the cup first…”

Diminutive Crowley led Actual Crowley to the tea station, past gathered crowds of convention goers, laughing and congratulating each other on their costumes. Crowley let the talk of tea wash over him; he knew that Aziraphale had contributed to George Orwell’s 1946 essay on the perfect cup, and, as Crowley hung on his every word after nearly losing him in 1941, he had committed the method to memory. However, what was fast becoming clear was that Aziraphale knew nothing about tea making compared to Diminutive Crowley, who was creating a superlative brew whilst people thronged around them. 

What Crowley knew, but had not quite actualised, was that The Ineffable Con was specifically a shipping convention. He had booked because Crepes had invited him to; nothing else had seemed important. Standing by the tea station, listening to the chatter of “ineffable husbands” and watching Aziraphales and Crowleys cuddling up for photos, he wondered what he had let himself in for. There seemed to be no escape: people were flocking up the stairs, excited for the start of the convention, and Diminutive Crowley was at his side, ensuring he found the way.

The room upstairs was full to bursting. It seemed like every person from Crowley’s past was here; Aziraphale in several guises, numerous iterations of himself from various time periods, and the welcome session was led by a horrifyingly accurate War, undercover as Carmine Zuigiber. No time was wasted in getting people to tables; Crowley was frantically searching for an escape that seemed just ever-so-slightly out of reach. Sheets of paper were thrust into hands and people began to “network”, an abhorrent concept designed exactly for venues like this.

Out of the corner of his eye, Crowley, stubbornly stationed at the back of the room, watched Aziraphale take to the human bingo like a duck (with ears) to water. People congregated around Crowley, waving their sheets near him and asking which of the boxes applied to him. Arguably, he was related to someone famous, but trying to explain the Almighty seemed like a lot for a Friday night. “Owns a bookshop” made his eyes roll; he settled for stealing “Is a licensed snake handler” and vowed to meet whoever was the owner of that accolade. If he had to stay here, he might as well make the most of it. He noted, with a pang, that Aziraphale gave his table a wide berth. He could almost understand why; it was crowded, it was new and it was confusing. If he had no idea what he would say, why would Aziraphale? But, rationalising it didn’t seem to lessen the pain in his chest.

Crowley was lost for a moment in musings about whether High Wycombe was better, or worse, than Hell. He wouldn’t allow himself to consider the fact that wherever Aziraphale was, was usually Heaven to him; even he had to have a limit. On the positive side, Aziraphale notwithstanding, everyone was bearable, wine was available and he could retreat to his room as soon as possible. On the reverse, Aziraphale notwithstanding, Crepes could be anyone in the room, he was sweating with nerves and not just because he wasn’t even the best-dressed Crowley in the room. Just as he was considering what he might say in a ‘bright and breezy’ message to Crepes, he heard:

“Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate…”

Oh, FUCK. Crowley knew that voice; the first time he had heard it, he had wondered how they had got the actual Almighty to feature in the TV show. While Crowley had been lost in thought, the room had gone quiet and, if he wasn’t very much mistaken, episode three had begun. 

Crowley began to panic. Heart racing, palms sweating, he looked for the nearest exit. The lights had gone down, the room was silent and everyone was staring at the screen - could he sneak out, unnoticed? Then; a thought. Had Aziraphale even seen the show? Did he have any idea how the actors gazed at each other with undisguised longing? Would he be amused, horrified… maybe curious? 

For a moment, Crowley was back in The Enterprise, pouring his heart out as Pepper poured the whisky. Gushing, some would say, about how the book _left out all of the best bits..._which Pepper had clearly squirreled away for the screenplay. If the book was Pepper’s recollection of events, with a side order of Crowley’s musings, the TV show was Crowley’s _dreams_. 

Curious now himself, he sought Aziraphale out in the crowd. He was sitting a little way in front, so Crowley stared intently at the back of his head, trying to read his reactions from minute movements. He wasn’t getting much, the back of Aziraphale’s head being not terribly expressive even to the eyes of someone who had spent six thousand years watching and waiting.

The programme inexorably progressed, jolting from the group’s unanimous and hearty “Oi Shem!” to the sadness of the scene of Christ. He couldn’t remember telling Pepper any of this; he really must be more careful when the Talisker was open.

Crowley remembered with fondness the early days of the Arrangement, back when he had at least had to uphold the pretence of having to tempt Aziraphale into going along with it. The Globe scene was singularly painful to watch, though. How vividly must he have described it to Pepper, for an exact facsimile of the smile he remembered was now beaming from the face of Michael Sheen as he said, “Buck up, Hamlet!”

Crowley had to confess he may have overdone the Hamlet miracle, but he was a fool for that smile. Nearly four centuries later he had even tempted Disney to make an adaptation in which the characters were lions. That sang. He would claim no responsibility for the new CGI version, though; he wouldn’t have stooped that low even if he were still working for Hell.

Paris, 1793, was, without question, one of Crowley’s favourite memories. Pepper and her team had captured it far too well for Crowley to be in a room full of people, never mind one that contained both Aziraphale and Crepes. The memory of Aziraphale’s outfit, its portrayal on screen and the many, many fics in which it had featured both on and off his corporeal form, distracted Crowley for a moment; now was not the time for thinking about macarons and chains. He smiled wryly at Aziraphale’s French - never the best, unless it was to ask for crepes - before his heart skipped more than just a beat at the way he said “Crowley”. Surely - _surely_ \- he had never described such adoration in his late night talks with Pepper?

Then came their argument in St James’s Park. Crowley glanced back over to Aziraphale, not daring to linger for too long. It was still hard to gauge, from the back of his head, exactly what he was thinking...

Soon enough, it was 1941. The first time Crowley had watched this scene, he couldn’t help but think that Mark Gatiss might as well have held up a sign that said, “Crowley loves Aziraphale.” His heart hurt with the longing, the pain, the relief, captured perfectly on screen and he felt no differently now. He saw Aziraphale’s shoulders shake as he chuckled at Crowley hot footing it down the aisle; _glad to be of service_, he thought. At least the subtleties were being lost.

Then, as on-screen Crowley handed Aziraphale a bag of books, the score swelled to a romantic crescendo and the camera zoomed in on an expression of pure adoration. Crowley could see the real Aziraphale go very still. This part was pure fiction, of course; he’d walked towards the car, confident Aziraphale would follow him, their old argument forgotten. Not once had he looked over his shoulder to see the look on Aziraphale’s face. The one on screen was only what he imagined (hoped, dreamed) it might have been...

He was glad for the change of tempo to London, 1967; David Arnold warranted a demonic miracle or two for his soundtrack. However, as the scene progressed to the Bentley, Crowley began to feel maudlin. There were many times he should have said “thank you,” many times that Aziraphale had bailed _him_ out, and yet; they never could find the right words. Now, here he was, in _High Wycombe_, of all places, to meet someone else, to move on, for Someone’s sake. Sure, they had dined at the Ritz on a number of occasions by now… but for what? Never so much as the stroke of a wrist or the hold of a hand, never mind a whispered promise of eternal love. And why?

There: the knife in his heart. “You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

Wrenching himself out of his stupor, he was amazed to see Aziraphale being handed a tissue, thanking the proferrer quietly and without looking up. Crowley’s mind left him and gave no signs of coming back. What on Earth could have got Aziraphale so upset? Crowley had no desire to find out. This was all too much. Crepes was seemingly nowhere; he had examined all of the badges he could see. Aziraphale was here, too here, upset for no reason - _he_ hadn’t been the one told that they go too fast, after all.

Before the opening credits had even begun to roll, Crowley was in the hallway. His head was buzzing, his heart hurt and he was angry. At himself, at Crepes, at Aziraphale, at God herself. With a scowl, he stormed back to his room.

Safely ensconced in his nondescript room, Crowley listened bitterly to the sounds of the crowd filtering down to dinner. Aziraphale would be among them, no doubt surrounded by adoring fans cooing over his “costume” and lapping up every bit of attention, utterly oblivious to the torment that his presence represented for Crowley.

For an hour, Crowley lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling as a cycle of to leave, not to leave ran through his head. _Buck up, Crowley_, he thought, and that smile flashed vividly in his head, a hybrid of the real one, more than four centuries ago, but still burned onto his retinas, and the copy immortalised on film for anyone to see.

This was ridiculous. He needed to get over it, and that meant finding Crepes. He was sure, for Someone’s sake, he would at least be able to exchange pleasantries with Aziraphale whilst he searched..

With some effort, he hauled himself up off the bed and out to the lounge, where the con goers were filtering out of dinner. He wandered around trying to catch sight of everyone’s badges. Some he recognised from Twitter or AO3, others were a mystery. He was just trying to parse the name “Anathemmawww” when the owner of the badge started talking to him.

“Oh, you’re LoverBoy, aren’t you?” she exclaimed in a Northern Irish accent. “I absolutely adore your fic.”

Crowley tore his gaze from her badge. “You do?”

Anathemmawww wore a contented, wistful expression as she reminisced about “oh the picnics, and that one that’s just ten thousand words of Crowley gazing adoringly at Aziraphale while he eats? They’re so soft.”

“Yeah, well,” Crowley shifted uncomfortably. “Not all of them.”

“The one with the meteor shower is just the softest thing ever.”

Crowley’s gaze darted frantically around the room for Aziraphale, hoping that, by some small miracle, he hadn’t heard any of that. Crowley had a _reputation_ to maintain, dammit.

Before he knew what was happening, Anathemmawww was taking him by the arm and leading him back upstairs.

“I was actually looking for someone,” Crowley tried to protest.

“Everyone will be there,” she assured him. “It’s the opening ceremony!”

Perhaps everyone was there, but Crowley didn’t have a chance to look for Crepes because they had randomly assigned seating for this session in an attempt to encourage “mingling” (most definitely a demonic invention).

The room went dark, and a video began to play. Crowley watched in horror as the highlights of the show played before his eyes. Then, in a trick of editing, TV Crowley and Aziraphale arrived at the convention. It would have been delightful in its irony if only Crowley were not distracted by the pang in his chest at the thought of coming here _with_ Aziraphale. Instead, they had come separately, and exchanged not a word all evening.

There was no time to dwell on that, though, as it was on to the dreaded icebreakers. Despite himself, Crowley found he almost enjoyed it. After some very badly imagined Bentleys in Play Doh and a whole room of people shouting “PORNOGRAPHY”, it was time for “Kink Bingo.” As an avid AO3 reader, Crowley was no stranger to kinks… or so he thought. Settling down with his table, he was perusing his card, wondering what some of the terms meant, when he heard, “Oh, allow me, dear boy!”. Crowley’s head whipped around to see - and, mortifyingly, to hear - Aziraphale’s detailed description of “figging”. Crowley’s face turned the same shade of red as his hair, willing, for the first time in living memory, for the ground to swallow him up. If this was Hell on earth, at least the real thing was warmer and “fisting” was never a rallying cry…

Later that night, to break from staring at the ceiling, Crowley sent the email he had been contemplating all evening:

_Hey Crepes,_

_Did you make it to the con? Couldn’t find you this evening. Hope to catch up with you tomorrow? I’ll be in the lounge if you want to meet._

_LoverBoy_

Then, with a heavy sigh, he threw his phone onto the bedside table, rolled over and groaned. 

_Let tomorrow be better_, he pleaded with himself. _Let me speak with Aziraphale, find Crepes and move on. Six thousand years is long enough._


	5. The Search

Crowley woke early on Saturday, momentarily disoriented by the small conference centre bed and the dull corporate furnishings illuminated by light streaming past the curtains he had neglected to close. Then he remembered where he was, and considered burying himself in the duvet and writing off the day.

No, he reminded himself, he had a mission: find Crepes, something, something, move on. To accomplish this, he would have to venture out of bed and face the throngs of people dressed like him. What if Crepes was one of them? Would that be better or worse than if he were one of the beige-clothed blonds that were a pale imitation of the real Aziraphale?

_Who is also here_, Crowley’s treacherous brain reminded him. He groaned into the plain white pillow. Nope, never leaving this bed.

_What if Aziraphale meets Crepes before I do? What if he somehow finds out that we…_

That thought was enough to have Crowley leaping out of bed. Getting showered and dressed required no more than the click of his fingers, so, a minute later, he was doing his best impression of an unconcerned saunter into the lounge...

...which was deserted, except for a solitary figure in the corner, a mug perched on his knee and his nose buried in a book.

Curse Aziraphale for never learning to sleep.

With dawning horror, Crowley realised that wasn’t a book the angel was reading; it was fanfiction from the convention reading library. Judging by the stack of similarly-bound documents by his side, he had apparently spent the night working his way through the box. Even worse, the one currently in his hands bore a cartoonish Crowley-like figure upon the cover, diligently marking the piece as “explicit.”

There was nothing for it; he was going to have to bolt for the Bentley and start a new life far, far away from here. Alpha Centauri was nice at this time of year. 

He had managed no more than a tentative step backwards before Aziraphale had the audacity to acknowledge him with a brisk, “Good morning, my dear.”

Crowley stood rooted to the spot, glancing furtively towards the exit.

“Breakfast won’t be served for another twenty minutes,” Aziraphale continued, “but there’s tea.” He gestured with one hand towards the machine.

Lacking any alternative ideas, Crowley made himself a mediocre machine coffee - hastily miracled into something more palatable - and, instinctively, made Aziraphale a fresh cup of tea. He beamed when Crowley handed it to him. That smile had always done peculiar things to Crowley’s stomach, so before he could think better of it, he was folding himself into a chair by the angel’s side.

“What’re you reading?” he asked, trying - and failing - to sound nonchalant.

Aziraphale went very still, as though only just realising he’d been caught reading pornography. Then, slowly, he raised it to reveal the cover.

Any amusement Crowley may have been feeling withered and died. It was _his_ fic: the only explicit one he’d ever written. The one he’d written after an especially exciting night of messaging with Crepes.

“Not your usual style, angel…” Crowley tried to laugh off the discovery.

“Well, when in Rome…” The openly graphic fic became the elephant in the room, growing larger with each heartbeat. “Salutaria!” Aziraphale raised his cup with a weak smile. 

_Change the subject, change the subject_, thought Crowley, desperately. _To what? I really enjoyed your description of figging last night, angel. Your descriptions of edging and rimming were second to none… Hardly. How did you like the cold open? 30 minutes of our lives together, being broadcast for the world to see how much I love you._

Realising he had been silent for too long - realising that, clearly, Aziraphale also couldn’t find the words to capture this situation - Crowley let out an anguished sigh. Aziraphale had obviously chosen to stay for the attention (fussy angel that he was). Crowley was determined to stay until he had met Crepes, no matter how uncomfortable the situation might now be.

Aiming for a casual tone but straying wide of the mark even to his own ears, Crowley said, “Didn’t think you’d seen the show. Did you just read the book?”

Aziraphale hesitated before he responded, “Neither, actually. Well, until last night. That was…” he trailed off and took a gulp of tea that was surely too hot.

“Oh?” Crowley found himself sitting up straighter, curious despite himself. “What did you think?”

“It’s strange, to see six thousand years of your life condensed like that.”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed.

“And odd, which occasions they chose to represent in the cinematic show. I note that none of the occasions on which _I_ rescued _you_ from discorporation were included…”

_Probably because I didn’t tell Pepper about those_, Crowley thought, but, “Yeah, strange, that,” was all he said.

“And the chap they have playing me, well -”

But before Crowley could find out what Aziraphale thought of Michael Sheen, he was cut off by a rambunctious group entering the lounge, who immediately demanded photos with them both. Fics and drinks forgotten, they allowed themselves to be pulled in different directions, feebly joining in the shouts of “to the world” that seemed to replace the more traditional “cheese.” Aziraphale excused himself, after a time, to return to his room and collect his badge; Crowley thought to follow would be too forward - what would he even say? - so he watched sadly as Aziraphale’s back retreated from the lounge. He retrieved his now cold coffee, slumped into a chair, and waited to see whether Crepes would accept his invitation to meet in the lounge. 

********

Saturday was clearly a packed day for the convention. Crowley’s mission was to find Crepes; he was increasingly beginning to wonder whether he had been stood up. Reading people’s badges was difficult; every time he got close enough, someone would decide to quiz him on his “tattoo” or how “screen accurate” his necktie was. He was considering going back to his room to email Crepes again (read: to hide), when one of the programme items caught his eye.

_Meet and Greet with the Crowley Family  
RepSmiles_

_For fanfiction research of just for fun: meet some of Crowley’s serpent friends. **Content Notice: contains live snakes (handling optional).**_

An idea formed in Crowley’s increasingly addled brain. If snakes were being passed around, surely this represented a prime opportunity for him to choose his snake form, and use it as an opportunity to ssslither right up to people’s badges…?

The rest of the day passed in a blur, with Crowley eager to get to the snake workshop, find Crepes and get the Hell out of High Wycombe. He declined to attend the panels, waiting, as he promised, in the lounge, but could hear the laughter from the floor above from his vantage point. He checked as many badges as possible as people walked past, procuring unfathomable amounts of tea. Aziraphale came through to do just that at one point, glancing in Crowley’s direction but not quite acknowledging him, before turning around, miraculously balancing numerous cups of tea in his hands. _Of course he’s fetching tea for his new fans_, Crowley thought, bitterly. Unlike him, Aziraphale had chosen to attend every panel going, including “Ineffable Husbands”, with the billing, “How much difference does it make to have the author openly acknowledge it as a love story?”

Ngk.

If Aziraphale wanted to attend a panel and make fun of their arrangement (one could hardly call it a “relationship”), then he was welcome to do so. Crowley, on the other hand, amused himself with some colouring; he didn’t think his heart could take the fic library right now. If Aziraphale saw him colouring a picture of the two of them kissing on Aziraphale’s desk, then so be it. Let _him_ think Crowley was making fun of the whole thing, of Aziraphale’s rumpled shirt and Crowley’s unbuttoned jeans, pushed down to reveal his underwear (he coloured it red, decided he liked it, and miracled a quick change to the real thing).

Aziraphale didn’t come back, though, and there was still no sign of Crepes.

********

Finally, 14:00 arrived. The hubbub in the room had increased to peak excitement as the snakes were brought through the corridor and into the main function room. While no miracle was needed to change into his snake form, Crowley chose to use one not only to enter one of the boxes, but to ensure that the snake handlers didn’t balk at the addition of “CROWLEY!”, as everyone called out when a black snake was drawn from the plastic container. 

Seizing his opportunity, Crowley was the most active snake in the bunch, twisting and turning around Aziraphales, Crowleys, Madame Tracys and more. Unfortunately, the majority of people had taken their badges off, so as not to get badge and snake entangled, which presented a major flaw in Crowley’s serpentine plan.

Still, the attention was nice. He was used to humans screaming in terror at his snake form, but these humans _adored_ him. A nun from the Chattering Order was especially delighted by him, and he spent some time with them, enjoying the way they fawned over him.

It came as something of a surprise when he was handed over and found himself entwined with Aziraphale; actual Aziraphale. Of course, when he was Crawly, Aziraphale had had the opportunity to “gaze on his snaky countenance,” or however else he might put it, but it had been a while. Aziraphale gave no outward signs of recognition and, Crowley, being unfamiliar with the cadence of Aziraphale’s heartbeat, had no way of knowing whether its rhythm was faster than usual, or just the one he had chosen. 

“My dear Crowley,” Aziraphale cooed. _That’s it, angel, make a joke. Little do you know..._ All around them, pictures were being taken, Aziraphale smiling and encouraging Crowley to wrap around his neck, his wrists. Basking in the warmth of the autumn sun streaming through the windows and the not-inconsiderable heat radiating from Aziraphale’s corporeal form, Crowley’s search for Crepes was almost forgotten. He was brought back to reality with a jolt, however, when he heard Aziraphale whispering:

“Thine eyes I love, and they as pitying me, knowing thy heart torment me with disdain, have put on black, and loving mourners be, looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.”

Eyes. Shakespeare. Again.

It was all too much for Crowley; whilst there was no Heavenly way that Aziraphale could have known about Crepes, it felt like he was being mocked, being jeered through the medium of 17th century poetry, as only Aziraphale would. 

Quickly, he disentangled himself and slid to the floor. Aziraphale raised no alarm… could he have known that it was Crowley? _Don’t be ridiculous_, thought Crowley. _He’s likely run out of good citizenship for today, with all of the tea he’s been making for people, and will let me be someone else’s problem._

Before that problem could arise, Crowley found a quiet corner and miracled back to his lanky self, before meandering back towards the lounge as if nothing had happened.

As the snakes were put away, and with still no sign of Crepes, Crowley decided to take a look at the art show. It would be a quiet room, if nothing else. His breath hitched when he saw Aziraphale (_For Someone’s sake, please, get out of my SPACE, angel!_) staring intently at a painting of a fallen angel, shrouded in black and clutching at red hair. The raw emotion in the piece was enough to catch at Crowley’s throat; the tear in Aziraphale’s eye was the final straw.

Turning on his heels, Crowley made a break for the door. Now, he was angry. Aziraphale had no right to be upset - _he_ hadn’t fallen, after all. No, he had chosen to attend a convention without telling Crowley (Crowley ignored the fact that he had done exactly the same thing). He had chosen to cry for sympathy and attention during the cold open, paying no heed to the hurt in Crowley’s heart. He had attended workshops to talk about their “love” for each other, mocking the millennia of stolen glances and unheard conversations. Well: fuck him. 

********  
It was with anger filling his head that Crowley made the short journey to the building in which the gavotte was to be held. He had had a cursory glance at the bring and buy sale, and might have enjoyed the beautiful paintings and cleverly crafted figurines had his head not felt like a swarm of bees had taken up residence. His desire to attend the gavotte came not from wanting to watch Aziraphale prance around like the fool he was, and certainly not to join in himself, but because he had yet to find Crepes; this only added to his annoyance.

Finding a seat at the side of the room, studiously not meeting anyone’s eyes lest he be called to join in, Crowley took out his phone and, for what seemed like the millionth time today, checked his emails. Nothing. Turning to Twitter, he checked the feed of @CrepesFTW. It was clear that Crepes had been busy; this appeased Crowley somewhat, although not quite enough to just wait patiently for his meeting. Patience wasn’t Crowley’s style (unless it was a 6,000 year wait for a certain angel…).

He dashed off a quick DM, asking if Crepes would be gavotting, and waited, as people filled the room.

With the ‘Aziraphales’ on one side of the room and the ‘Crowleys’ on the other, people partnered up, all smiles and excitement. _Is there a non-festive equivalent of “Bah humbug”?_ wondered Crowley, as the sentiment seemed to sum up exactly how he was feeling: displeased. Displeased with the noise, the excitement, the camaraderie and, most of all, Aziraphale.

Of course Aziraphale was leading the demonstration. As the overtly cheerful music rang out, and the unanimous cry of “step, kick, step, kick” filled the room, Aziraphale’s face was filled with unbridled enthusiasm, smile beaming from ear to ear. 

“That’s it! Keep it up! You can do it! Step, kick, step, kick and walk, two, three, four...”

Crowley overheard him turn to the teacher as the participants cantered on, commenting on the authenticity of the dance.

“An excellent job, my dear; so hard to see the steps themselves from the footage, it would seem!”

The teacher blushed, as she agreed that she had had to use some creative licence. _Honestly_, thought Crowley, _why do people fawn over him? Acting like the leading authority on everything_...Crowley’s thoughts degenerated into _grumble, grumble_, as he alternated between scanning the room and checking his phone.

“It’s more of a ganotte, really!”

The peal of laugher from the room that followed was the final straw for Crowley. He had realised, moments ago, that it was unlikely anyone would respond to a DM whilst gavotting (except Aziraphale, who Crowley was sure would do it just to demonstrate his multitasking abilities…). He might as well return to the lounge - which he did, with a stomp.

********

“He was bloody brilliant! I mean, where do you even learn to gavotte, never mind gavotte like THAT!”

Crowley, sulking in the lounge, heard the din of people returning from the gavotte workshop long before he saw them. “Gentlemen’s clubs,” Crowley called out, rather more spitefully than he had intended. Still, this crowd was phased by nothing; if an in-depth discussion about the taste of Chaucer’s semen (Crowley’s face contorted at the thought) didn’t shock them, a spin in a gentlemen’s club was hardly likely to. Sure enough, they laughed. “That’s what he said!” said one of the ersatz Crowleys. 

Emboldened by this interaction, and still filled with a quiet rage that would not quit, Crowley ambled over to the tea station, as casually as possible. “Hey, I wonder if you can help me,” he asked the waiting group. “I’m looking for someone with the badge name of Crepes? Not seen them yet, and, well, we thought we might bump into each other here?”

The gathered crowd let out a peal of laughter. “Yes, _obviously_,” said one, shaking their head, presumably to mimic Crowley’s 1862 debacle. Crowley grimaced. “Although, ‘looks like Aziraphale’ isn’t exactly a useful description round here!” A snort from the crowd.

_So he is here_. The thought stabbed at Crowley’s chest. _Give up_, he thought, not for the first time. _Go home_. 

“They’ll likely be joining for dinner, though.” (another _“obviously”_ followed; he was becoming a standing joke, it would seem.) “At the Ritz!” 

_One last search? If Crepes doesn’t want to be found by the end of the evening, I’m leaving_. With that, Crowley sighed, and settled resignedly in the lounge to wait for everyone to return. _The Ritz_, he nearly snorted. _Aziraphale will love that..._


	6. The End?

For dinner that night, the dull dining room had been transformed into as good a facsimile of the Ritz as was to be had on a limited budget in a dismally corporate conference centre. While it lacked the opulence of the Ritz, it also lacked the stuffiness; people thronged together, laughing and joking in a way that made Crowley almost forget about the matter at hand.

Crowley had arrived at dinner early, in order to secure a good vantage point to watch people enter the lounge. He had happened upon at least two Horsepeople, much to his distress, and had reminisced fondly over his time with Warlock after seeing a Brother Francis and Nanny Ashtoreth. A frivolous miracle ensured the co-organisers thought a last-minute couples costume prize was a truly excellent idea; Crowley didn’t like to see Brother Francis’... effort… being wasted.

So as not to dwell on that thought, he returned to scanning the room. No Aziraphale, as yet, and who knew whether Crepes was here or otherwise? Several people had abandoned their badges so as not to detract from their costumes.

The thought that he might have been ‘stood up’ was worse than thinking about Francis; either way, his heart felt heavy in his chest. Why was moving forwards so difficult? Why did all roads lead back to Aziraphale? Gabriel must have invented the M40, so painful was it to be here in High Wycombe.

_Call yourself a demon?_ thought Crowley. _Shake it off, for Someone’s sake. Find Crepes, ignore Aziraphale and, just for good measure, let’s have a bit of demonic fun..._

After making the food as bland as possible and the tables one seat too short for people to sit with their chosen groups, Crowley was feeling more chipper. Until, that is, Aziraphale sat down.

“I hope you don’t mind me joining you, dear boy. The group I wanted to sit with… well, the tables just aren’t quite big enough, you see…”

Crowley groaned inwardly, but plastered a semblance of a smile on his face. 

“Fill your boots, angel - it’s a free country…”

Aziraphale sat apart from Crowley, thus rendering conversation - thankfully - very difficult. After remarking on the deliciousness of the food (which Crowley knew was a lie), the conversation turned to dining experiences. Of course, Aziraphale held court, telling tales of the actual Ritz, of Claridge’s and the Savoy, as well as further flung restaurants in countries that no longer existed, sharing tales of his past to stay “in character.” His audience lapped it up, quizzing him on rare meats and fine wine, hoping he would slip up and call the Big Mac the finest culinary invention of all time.

As the call to head upstairs rang out, Crowley saw Aziraphale pause thoughtfully, before turning in his direction. 

“Of course, it’s the company that makes the Ritz so special; the food is a mere trifle.”

As their eyes locked, Crowley fled upstairs. 

********

From the Garden, Crowley had considered himself competitive. What is the point of being a demon if not to create the best - the worst - situations and receive high praise? As such, the thought of a quiz, even in his current emotional state, appealed. Surely, as it was his actual life, he was a dead cert to win? At the risk of sounding like Gabriel, it was the winning, not the taking part, that counted.

_Oh, of course. You couldn’t just let me have this one, could you?_

Crowley raised his eyes Heavenwards as Aziraphale sat on his table, matched with the fluffy unicorn on his card that indicated their randomly assigned seating.

“Oi Shem…” remarked Aziraphale, with a feeble smile.

_Oh, Satan, now he’s trying to join in with the quotes._ Crowley’s card bore an earthworm, and he had never had more of a desire to actually be an earthworm than right now. Even though he knew, and had contemplated all too recently, the ‘joys’ of Hell, underground still seemed like a holiday compared to this.

He was spared having to make small talk with Aziraphale by the arrival of another member of their team, another red-headed demon imitating Crowley’s impeccable dress sense.

“Oh my!” Aziraphale exclaimed, “I’m surrounded by demons! How delightful!”

Crowley hid an eye roll behind his sunglasses as the new demon turned to them with a stern expression. “You two had better know your stuff,” they said, “because we are _winning_ this thing.”

Once they spoke, Crowley recognised them as the nun from earlier. A highly competitive nun-cum-demon too, apparently; perhaps this night would be entertaining, after all.

The rest of their team filtered in: a fluffy-haired angel in a white tuxedo, others in fabulous dresses. The demon-nun gave them all the same instructions: they were there to win.

The quiz was being led by War, clad in red leathers with blood streaks on her face and scalemail on her shoulders. It would all be a lot more terrifying if Crowley hadn’t seen the real War defeated by an eleven year-old (albeit the fiercest eleven year-old he’d ever met). Still, when this War started hollering for silence and laying down the rules of the game, he couldn’t help but feel a little intimidated.

Things immediately got off to a bad start with the first question: _Name the two newspapers we see Aziraphale and Crowley reading._ The nun-demon started writing before War had even finished reading out the question, but Aziraphale was having none of it.

“As _if_ I would be caught reading the _Celestial Observer_!” he hissed under his breath. “I’m an _Ethereal Times_ reader, you know!”

“This is the right answer,” the nun-demon insisted, stabbing the page with their pen.

“But it’s _incorrect_!”

As amusing as this was, Crowley thought he’d soon see steam rising from the nun-demon’s ears, so he intervened. “Angel, they mean the one in the TV show. In that scene,” he gestured towards the screen, which showed the TV Aziraphale on a bus reading a newspaper with a blurred-out title.

“Well,” Aziraphale bristled, “I haven’t seen the televisual production, but I know what I -“

“_You haven’t seen the show?_” the nun-demon said between clenched teeth, in a tone that clearly said _what in the name of all that is demonic or holy are you doing on my team?_

Chastened, Aziraphale conceded the point, but kept grumbling to himself about editorial standards...

Crowley leaned back in his chair and grinned, but his amusement was short-lived; the screen changed to reveal a picture of the Bentley.

“What is the registration number of the Bentley?” War read out.

Crowley groaned inwardly. _BLE 430_, he wanted to shout. But no, the TV show had given him - the horror! - custom plates. He couldn’t remember what, exactly, but fortunately, at least three other members of their team could.

Crowley managed to keep quiet, but Aziraphale, of course, was less restrained.

“No,” he was insisting, pointing at the answer sheet, “that’s not right.”

“It’s fine,” Crowley interjected.

“You haven’t seen what they’ve written! It doesn’t even have any numbers in it!”

Under the table, Crowley surreptitiously summoned a bottle of wine from the bar and topped up both of their glasses. “It’s _fine_,” he insisted, pointedly.

Aziraphale made a face at him and looked up for the next question. It was about the Horsepeople. Aziraphale’s shoulders sagged as he mumbled, “Well, how the Devil should I know?”

The questions wore on, with Aziraphale and Crowley contributing nothing to their team’s effort but making considerable inroads into the wine. One question asked the combination to Crowley’s safe; he was too busy spluttering in indignation at the severe breach of security to contribute an answer (the rest of the team knew it anyway, much to his chagrin).

“Crowley suggests running away to Alpha Centauri,” War asked, “which is a system made up of how many stars?”

Blindsided, Crowley spilled red wine all over the pristine white tablecloth. It was many years ago now, but the rejection still stung. With Aziraphale _right there_ and all these people around him treating it as a purely academic question…

“Oh, but I don’t think that’s right,” Aziraphale was saying. He was giving Crowley a look that was somewhere between imploring and apologetic.

Crowley leaned over to look at the page. “Yeah, no, it’s three,” he said, resignedly.

Over on the other side of the table, someone tutted. “Don’t listen to him,” they said, “he hasn’t got a single question right so far.”

“But he’s right _this_ time,” Aziraphale insisted.

“Says the guy who hasn’t seen the show,” the demon-nun muttered, with a ruthless glower.

“Let it _go_, angel.” Crowley leaned over to top up his glass; Aziraphale gave a sulky sip, continuing to pout.

Realising he had nothing to contribute to the matter at hand, Crowley pulled out his phone, meaning to try messaging Crepes again. He startled as a handful of gummy snakes were hurled at his chest.

“What are you doing?” the demon-nun demanded. “Do you want to get us disqualified? Phones away!”

Crowley opened his mouth to protest that he wasn’t Googling answers, but War was glowering in his direction, too, so he sulkily put his phone away.

Crepes was, most likely, in this room _right now_. Why hadn’t he made himself known to Crowley? Had he taken one look at him and thought better of meeting? That seemed unlikely; Crowley was perfectly aware that he was considered attractive by human standards. Perhaps he’d been too forward with the whole asking him out by email thing, but then how was one _supposed_ to respond to a night of quite passionate sexting?

The shrill ring of a buzzer tore Crowley from his thoughts.

Aziraphale was sitting up straight, sporting a smug grin. He slammed the buzzer again, while the rest of the table stared.

“This isn’t fastest finger first,” War snapped at him. “And where did you even get a buzzer? Let alone one that sounds like bloody cherubim!”

“But I know this one!” Aziraphale pouted. “The Great Plague of London; I remember it well!”

“Write it down, then,” said War, rolling her eyes and storming over to confiscate the buzzer.

While the rest of the table glared at Aziraphale in abject horror, Crowley grinned and topped up his glass.

“I do know this one,” Aziraphale grumbled.

“I know you do,” Crowley said with a fond smile, and, with a surreptitious miracle, he changed the answer on the demon-nun’s closely-guarded answer sheet.

Aziraphale returned his smile with that soft, shy look in his eyes that made Crowley’s stomach drop as though it had suddenly transmuted into lead.

Well, crap.

Definitely not over this, then. How could he even have entertained the notion of moving on with some anonymous writer of online smut? His heart had been firmly wedged in the starched pocket of a certain angel for six millennia and that wasn’t about to change anytime soon.

Realising he was staring - no, worse, _gazing_ \- Crowley grasped frantically for something, anything to say.

“So, uh, how did you even find out about…” he waved a hand to encompass this whole bizarre convention.

“I do keep up with human trends,” Aziraphale bristled.

“We found his shop,” another of their teammates chimed in. Crowley was startled to see their eyes matched his - how refreshing that he didn’t need to hide them here! - and, when they spoke, he recognised them as the one who was so knowledgeable about tea from earlier.

“They liked my clothes,” Aziraphale added, with one of his delighted little wriggles.

“Yeah,” Crowley said, struggling to suppress a smile. “They would.”

“He pretended he hadn’t even heard of Good Omens!” Diminutive Crowley cackled.

Aziraphale’s expression darkened. “They accused me of working for Amazon!”

“Surely not,” said Crowley.

“Hush,” the demon-nun waved a hand at them. “Round Six is starting.”

Round Six turned out to be titled the ubiquitous _Ineffable Husbands_ and consisted of five questions of utter torment, delving into his and Aziraphale’s relationship through the millennia. The only comfort was that Aziraphale looked every bit as uncomfortable as he felt while their teammates casually threw around private information about their long-shared history. Ever the helpful angel, he did hesitantly offer a couple of answers, but the rest of the team appeared to have the situation well in hand.

And then the question on the screen changed to _In which year did Aziraphale open his bookshop?_

“Eighteen hundred,” Aziraphale said, too quietly for anyone else to notice; they knew the answer anyway. Aziraphale looked up at Crowley and added, sotto voce, “I remember you brought me chocolates.”

Crowley froze in the act of lifting his wine glass. “Sabotaged your fancy promotion, too.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale set down his glass and took a deep breath, on the verge of saying something...

“Time to swap answer sheets!” War called to the entire room. There was a sudden bustle of activity and the tension of the moment evaporated.

War read through the answers, each one greeted by a combination of cheers and groans (from their table, mostly cheers). Aziraphale had somehow been tasked with marking their neighbouring table’s answers, and was, of course, quibbling each and every one.

“I don’t care if they get the exact wording of Anathema’s PhD thesis,” War said to him, exasperated. “If it’s obvious they knew the answer, it’s right.”

“Well, this is not very Nice or Accurate,” Aziraphale grumbled, as he reluctantly awarded the mark.

Once the marked answer sheets were turned in, War announced a ten minute break - with cake! - before the vid show. Aziraphale immediately leapt up, while Crowley remained frozen in his seat.

The vid show.

Oh shit, oh damn, oh bollocks. 

It had been a bit of a whim, really. He’d seen the vid show mentioned in the convention update emails and wondered what that was about, then spent an educational evening on YouTube investigating the fanvid phenomenon. He hadn’t intended to make one, not really, but then this song had come on the radio and given him _feels_, as the Internet would put it…

Bugger it all to Heaven. He should leave. Or miracle it off the programme. Maybe it wasn’t even on the programme?

Right on cue, War deposited a stack of vid show programmes and DVDs on their table. Crowley dared a glance at the sheet of paper and saw, to his horror, the name LoverBoy towards the end of the list. He tentatively picked up a DVD, and there, again, in black and white, was his pseudonym. There was going to be a _permanent souvenir_ of this travesty. Worse, Aziraphale’s brick of a computer was probably old enough to still have a DVD drive, too.

Was even Alpha Centauri going to be far enough away to escape this nightmare? Perhaps he should start investigating Andromeda...

Aziraphale reappeared with two napkins filled with cake, and slid one towards him. Crowley stared at it blankly. “What’s this?”

“Angel cake, of course,” said Aziraphale, and took a bite of his own devil’s food cake.

Far too nervous to consider eating, Crowley waited for Aziraphale to finish and then pushed his cake over towards him. Aziraphale accepted it with a happy wiggle and one of those beatific smiles that made Crowley’s insides do a little somersault.

_I need to leave, right now_, Crowley thought, _before that video plays and everything comes crashing down…_

“Time for the results,” War announced, and the hubbub around them died down. “The winners are Oi-Shem’s Eight!”

Crowley hadn’t been paying attention when their team had picked its name, but the cheers that erupted around him suggested that they had won.

“No thanks to you two,” the demon nun groused, while handing them their prizes.

Aziraphale didn’t seem to care at all whether he’d earned it; he gleefully opened the box and pulled out a brand new wing mug.

“Oh, this is splendid,” he declared, beaming. “I broke mine when I read the Wikipedia entry for Good Omens, you know!” He looked over at Crowley. “And now you have a matching one too!”

Crowley opened his box and filled both mugs with wine. “Cheers to that.”

********

It was too late to escape by the time Crowley realised the vid show had started; he had been too lost in his own catastrophising thoughts to see the lights go down and the doors close. Everyone had become silent; you could hear the pin that the angels didn’t dance upon drop. Furtively looking around the room to determine whether anyone would notice if he miracled himself elsewhere - anywhere - he concluded that he was too close to the front of the room to risk it. All eyes were in his direction, clapping and cheering in the short pause between vids but, otherwise, enraptured. 

The vids themselves were funny, sweet and full of love, all at the same time. It was physically painful for Crowley to see their story played over and over again; magic tricks and lullabies and… and crepes. This, after all, was how he had got into this mess in the first place. Both crepes and Crepes were to blame; if he couldn’t feed his angel the former every day for the rest of his life, he had (stupidly) thought he might be able to move on with the latter. That was, after all, the crux of his entry into the vid show - with so many talented craftspeople, vidders and cosplayers, he had just wanted to _belong_. Wanted to _contribute_. What Crowley had rationalised as a conversation starter with Crepes was soon to be a full-blown tableau of his relationship with Aziraphale. In front of him. 

_I wonder what the opposite of the Ineffable Plan is_, pondered Crowley, as the room felt like it was moving in car-crash slow motion. _The Bloody Awful Plan? The What The Fuck Were You Thinking Plan? The…_

His thoughts were interrupted as the first tinkling notes of his song choice rang out. It was supposed to be ironic, _Heaven is a Place on Earth_. But, what Crowley remembered as a cracky vid, making fun of Aziraphale getting pissed, watching crap Shakespeare and his memorable foray into the Bastille had been transformed. _Well, this is what you get for using a miracle to create your vid, rather than Adobe Premiere_, thought Crowley. He was definitely choosing to consider that someone had meddled with his vid, rather than that he had deliberately miracled a _two and a half minute outpouring of love_. 

He stared at Aziraphale’s head so intensely he was surprised hellfire didn’t singe the back of his neck. Aziraphale’s body was shaking, but his head was resolutely still, staring at the screen. The nun-demon, with a considerably more nunlike expression than the one they had worn for the quiz (which had been all demon), handed him a tissue. 

Aziraphale was _crying. Again._

The realisation hit Crowley like the proverbial tonne of bricks. What had set him off? The only conclusion Crowley could draw was that he had been so distressed by Crowley’s blatant wish that Aziraphale felt the same way about him in real life as he did in the vid that he had been reduced to sobbing. Worse, the angel showed no signs of stopping. Not even the upbeat tempo of “Crazy = Genius” helped; the angel continued to whimper into his tissue. People were staring - in between the vids, of course, because, still, nobody was moving.

_I should raze this whole place to the ground_, thought Crowley. _Tear it down, burn it. Never let it be spoken of again_. It was uncharacteristic of him to have such vicious thoughts, but then, it wasn’t every day that your love of six thousand years decided to dissolve in front of you because of something that _you_ had done. 

Finally - FINALLY - the last vid ended and a warm round of applause filled the room. Aziraphale didn’t move. The lights went up. Aziraphale didn’t move. People began to chatter, of vids and cakes and pyjama parties. Aziraphale didn’t move.

_Fuck this_, thought Crowley. _I’m moving._

Pushing past everyone to be the first at the door, Crowley gasped for the breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding as he entered the empty corridor. Leaning against the wall to steady himself, he took a deep breath, 1...2… considering the futility of his actions as a demon that didn’t need to breathe, but taking solace in the focus on the breath regardless.

Without warning, Aziraphale stormed through the door, grabbed his lapels and forced him even further again the wall. He could feel the press of Aziraphale’s body, warm, angry, hungry, as he stared into his angel’s face. The grimace reflected back at him was the most uncharacteristic expression he had ever seen; not even bad sushi reduced Aziraphale to such levels of anguish.

“Aziraphale…”

“Shut. Up.” 

Aziraphale’s reply cut off whatever Crowley may have been about to say. He had no idea what that would have been, in any case; his sole focus was the proximity of Aziraphale’s mouth to his, their hot breath intermingling. 

“Have you _no clue_?!” Aziraphale snarled into Crowley’s face, close enough to... (_no, there is no place here for a serpentine tongue_, thought Crowley). “What were you thinking when you made that? Was your intention to discorporate me on the spot?!”

Crowley noticed that there were no “dear boys” any longer; he had really done it this time.

Aziraphale continued, making sounds, but not really making sense.

“I mean - honestly! Really! It is quite - honestly!” The exclamations did nothing to dampen the delirium Crowley felt from the closeness of Aziraphale’s being. _This might be the last time we are together_. The thought felt like a thunderbolt; he closed his eyes at the sheer strength of emotion, quickly opening them again: _if it is, I want to remember every moment. I will pay for what I have done, what I have broken, in this life and in the next._

Like an explosion, con goers burst from the function room. Aziraphale’s sentence, and Crowley’s heart, stopped. 

“REVERSE WALL SLAM!!!” shouted the nun-demon.

Without warning, phones and cameras were pulled from pockets and bags and shoved in their faces. With every fibre of his being, Crowley wished that he could miracle everyone else into the sea, to be back, face-to-face, nose-to-nose (_groin to groin…_) with Aziraphale. But, the spell had been broken.

“Can I be Crowley next?” one of their teammates cried. 

“Christ, we ALL want to be Crowley right now; that vid was a ‘break your heart with a crowbar to fit more feels in’ moment!”

People jostled for position, Crowley’s life feeling like it was a mere game for others to enjoy. His heart, only moments previous fit to burst as Aziraphale stared into his serpentine eyes, was now torn in two. That same heart, that felt light yet full, beating fast like the pulse in Aziraphale’s neck he was close enough to touch, to _lick_, now felt only unbearably heavy. Aziraphale was fucking oblivious; reenacting the moment for the waiting crowds, Crowley began to realise, as he laughed and joked and swapped his Crowley - _his_ Crowley - for poor facsimiles. Crowley couldn’t take any more; any more of Aziraphale preening for the assembled crowd, any more of the games, any more of the wait.

He slunk down the stairs and out into the starry night, to find the Bentley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was being very self-indulgent when writing part of this and had to reference the wonderful vid that Rhaegal made for me for The Ineffable Con vid show - [check it out!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21230201)  
-ClassicHazel


	7. The Bentley

Of course, he had forgotten momentarily that the entire Universe was out to get him; of course, _of course_ the main gate to the conference centre was locked at night. Growling with frustration, Crowley leaned on the horn, trying to attract the night security guard’s attention. He must be out on his rounds, because there was no one in the reception area. There was nothing else for it; he was going to have to miracle the gate away and let the convention organisers deal with the inevitable questions.

He had just raised his hand to vapourise the gate when there was a shimmer beside him, and a decidedly ruffled angel appeared in the passenger seat. With an exasperated sigh, Crowley’s forehead impacted the steering wheel.

“Not now, Aziraphale,” he said through clenched teeth. “I’m going back to London.”

“Then so am I.”

Crowley lifted his head and adopted his most snide tone. “And deprive your adoring fans of their photo ops?”

“Well, what would you have had me say?” Aziraphale snapped. “Far better they think we were just getting into character.”

“Than what?”

“Than… oh, Crowley…” Aziraphale was wringing his hands. “How did you _think_ I would react when I saw that…”

“I didn’t think you would see it. _Obviously_. What are you even doing here? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to this?”

“I did,” Aziraphale said quietly.

“What?”

“I did tell you.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Pretty sure I’d remember if you’d mentioned you were going to a convention for people who think we’re fictional characters.”

Aziraphale had gone very still. His lips were pursed and he was almost vibrating with tension, as though some terrible force could burst out of him at any moment. But when he spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper. “I invited you.”

Crowley threw up his hands in frustration. "You _definitely_ didn’t.”

“Oh, my dear…” Aziraphale closed his eyes. With one hand, he reached into his waistcoat pocket to pull out the name badge he had been concealing. The name badge which, in bold, red letters, read _TemptMeWithCrepes_.

Crepes.

Crepes was Aziraphale. The _actual_ Aziraphale.

But this didn’t compute. Crepes was comfortable with Internet slang. He was on Twitter. He wrote fanfiction. _Explicit_ fanfiction!

There was a tap at the window. A disgruntled security guard gestured towards the now open gate and pulled his jacket more tightly around himself to ward against the cold October night. Without hesitation, Crowley clicked his fingers and the security guard suddenly remembered he had urgent business to attend to in the boiler room.

Crowley stared ahead at the open gate, not daring to glance to the side. He was mentally replaying all the horrifying things he had said to Crepes. The _sexting_. Oh, Someone, the sexting…

Just as he was contemplating charging into the nearest church in search of holy water, it occurred to him to be angry. It was cruel, to mock his deepest fantasies like this, to pretend to be someone else so that he revealed things he would _never_ have knowingly said to Aziraphale…

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said hesitantly, “I know this is a lot, but it’s been ten minutes and you haven’t said anything.”

“What would you like me to say?” said Crowley, voice as cold as ice. “Am I supposed to congratulate you on your hilarious joke?”

“You have every right to be angry,” Aziraphale replied, contritely, “ but I didn’t know it was you!”

“You didn’t?” Crowley’s incredulity knew no bounds. 

“Not until yesterday.” Aziraphale was looking out of the opposite window, trembling faintly. “When you arrived at the registration desk.”

“And you’ve been having a good laugh with your new friends ever since?” Crowley’s sneer met his incredulousness and decided to be friends forever. 

“Of course not! I - I panicked, I think. What was I supposed to say?” Aziraphale began to flap.

“I don’t know… _something_!” Crowley threw his hands up in frustration. “I’ve been looking for you all day like a fucking _idiot_.”

“I know,” said Aziraphale sadly. “I did wait in the lounge, just like you asked… all night, in fact… was worried I might miss you, you see…”

“And, when I came in, you didn’t think to say, ‘Oh hey, funny story…’” Crowley was not backing down. Why should he?

“I wanted to,” said Aziraphale. “Only… I was worried you might be disappointed. You seemed so excited about meeting someone new…”

Crowley leaned back against the headrest and heaved a sigh. He remembered furtively looking round for ‘Crepes’ whilst he was talking to Aziraphale; clearly, it had not gone unnoticed. Why hadn’t he said something?! He really was as big an idiot as the fic comments would suggest. “So you came here to meet an anonymous Internet stranger, too.” He raised an eyebrow. 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale finally turned to look at him. “You know I would never have said any of those things if I’d known it was you…”

Crowley had just been beginning to thaw, but that stung worse than anything. “Yeah, _obviously_,” he snapped. “Can’t have me getting ideas, can we?”

“It’s not like that,” said Aziraphale. “I simply mean… I shouldn’t have spoken to you - and written about you - like that. It was so… crude. It’s just… it’s been building up for so many years and I finally had an outlet and I suppose I got carried away.”

Crowley’s brain suffered a processing error and all he could manage was “Ngk.”

The tension drained out of Aziraphale’s body and he chuckled softly. “You know, I never noticed you said that until I saw the AO3 tag.”

“Aaah… nnngggghhh…”

“Yes, quite. Well,” Aziraphale straightened his bow tie and smoothed down his jacket, clearly nervous. “That really was a lovely video you made. Quite beautiful, really. I have to ask… was it about me, or… or…” he gestured towards his name badge.

“Uh…” Crowley swallowed hard. “What does it matter? Turns out they’re the same.” At Aziraphale’s imploring look, he sighed. “Fine. Both, I think.” Crowley took a moment to consider the fact he had never once thought to even _look_ at Aziraphale’s name badge, because he had assumed Aziraphale didn’t have the imagination to go with anything other than his usual moniker. Yet...it would seem he had _quite_ the imagination, in fact...

Crowley was brought back by Aziraphale’s small cough. “You said…” Aziraphale started twisting his lanyard around his finger. “When you emailed me - or, well, Crepes - you said there had been someone else, but that you were… looking to dance to a different tune, I think was the expression?”

“When you rejected me, you mean,” said Crowley bitterly. Then something slotted into place and he added, “You said there was someone else.”

“You, obviously,” Aziraphale huffed.

“Obviously,” Crowley mimicked.

“So, that different tune…?”

“Never would have worked out,” Crowley said, staring resolutely ahead. “It’s always been you.”

There is a saying in Spanish, to denote an awkward pause, that was never more apt than this moment in the Bentley: an angel passes. To Crowley, Aziraphale seemed to be ‘passing’ for epochs, for eras; he actually wondered if, in his confused state, he had stopped time without realising.

Finally, Aziraphale let out a shaky sigh. As if putting on a mask, his demeanour changed to that of A. Z. Fell, bookshop proprietor with customer service _par excellence_. He straightened his back, puffed out his chest, and met Crowley’s gaze.

“Well, dear boy,” Aziraphale blew out his lips, in a “trying to say bouillabaisse when drunk” fashion. “There’s nothing left for it, then. We should...err...get down to business!”

_Well_, thought Crowley, resolutely avoiding the implications of the statement, _it could have been worse. He could have used some awful euphemism, like ‘afternoon delight’ or ‘hanky panky’. Small mercies…_

It amused Crowley somewhat that his angel (his...truly?) seemed to think that romance required a business-like countenance and for one to get straight down to “it”. For reasons that were now becoming abundantly clear, they had never discussed their respective sex lives (or lack thereof); Aziraphale could be a gentleman in the streets and a scoundrel in the sheets, for all Crowley knew.

The huffing and puffing, however, might suggest otherwise. As would the hand that he had inelegantly plopped into Crowley’s lap. Onto his…

WOW. Subtle. As a brick.

Crowley turned to look at Aziraphale and raised an eyebrow. The nerves of the moment were, momentarily, lost, as Crowley considered the absurdity of the move, of the situation. He wouldn’t laugh - after all, it had been six thousand years, he didn’t exactly want Aziraphale to rescind the gesture - but he did feel more at ease knowing that Aziraphale was _far_ from smooth.

Aziraphale blushed. “The thing is, my dear, in my desire to make this” (he gestured with his free hand) “perfect - and -” he paused, “-and in my desire for you, I have quite forgotten how to crack on with the matter at… err… hand!”

Again, the smile, the facade of friendliness worn as a mask to cover his discomfort at a situation, usually someone trying to buy a book. Crowley realised with a start that he had never had this face used on him; he needed to try and overcome his own nerves to put Aziraphale at ease, or he could lose both this opportunity and (worse, much worse) his best friend.

Crowley cleared his throat, unwaveringly _not_ looking at the hand-to-crotch situation. 

“Well, maybe we should start with a kiss?”

The moment he had finished his question, Aziraphale launched himself over the handbrake to deliver a dry kiss to Crowley’s cheek, the kind Crowley imagined you’d give your Grandma, if you had one. 

“Hmm, as nice as it is to be close to you, angel, that’s not really what I had in mind…”

Crowley turned towards Aziraphale, heart hammering in his chest, seeming to drum _don’t mess up, don’t mess up, don’t mess up_...He reached out a hand to cup Aziraphale’s face, noting that the nuzzle Aziraphale gave both quieted his mind and quickened his pulse in equal measure. He trailed his hand to the back of Aziraphale’s neck, caressing the nape, and pulled him closer.  
Aziraphale, eager to please, as always, shot forward at the merest hint of encouragement, bashing his forehead against Crowley’s. 

“Hang on, hang on, hang ON,” Crowley sat back in his seat, palms outstretched. “Let’s just take a moment to… y’know… chill out. Calm down.” He pushed his hands forward to punctuate each word, as if physically forcing the moment to stop.

“I’m sorry, Crowley,” murmured Aziraphale, forlornly. “Too keen!” He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “It’s never as easy as in the fics, is it?”

Crowley took a moment to consider the implications of the question. He shared Aziraphale’s sentiment with every fibre of his being; he had certainly never just fallen into bed with anyone, shoes _not_ hitting the bedside table, trousers _not_ getting tangled around his ankles, _no_ awkwardness at the end when it came to… cleaning up. He didn’t want his first time with Aziraphale (_FIRST TIME WITH AZIRAPHALE!!!!!_ His brain screamed) to fall prey to the same fate, to become an embarrassing anecdote - worse, to feature in Good Omens series 2 as a humorous interlude.

_Pull yourself together_, he chided himself. _It’s only sex, people have been doing it for millenia; you should know, you invented it!_

Crowley turned, once again, noting, with some dismay, that Aziraphale had removed his hand from its former resting place. He was now wringing them, a small moue on his face evidencing his distaste for the situation. Crowley hoped beyond hope that he could rectify that, that the expression was a result of the awkwardness, not of a change of heart,

“Err, angel? What would you say to ‘Take 2’?”

Aziraphale’s face lit up, reminding Crowley of the earlier gavotte. His heart swelled; he was right where he wanted to be, with the person he wanted to be with. _Nothing_ was going to spoil this. Full of new-found confidence, Crowley reached over once more. Running his knuckles down the side of Aziraphale’s face, noting, again, how he leaned into him, he covered the length of his neck, and down his arm, where he stopped to take a firm grip. Aziraphale waited; Crowley’s internal monologue reminded him that it was useful angels and demons didn’t need to breathe, as Aziraphale seemed to have stopped. 

Following his lead, Aziraphale’s expression softened, from bookshop owner to nervous date, similarly grasping Crowley’s arm. The fact that it was less affectionate and more the kind of grip you would use to ride Oblivion at Alton Towers could be ignored; contact had been restored and Crowley was never more glad of it.

Leaning over the handbrake (_For Satan’s sake, why did we not choose the BACK seat?!_), Crowley tilted his head and moved to meet Aziraphale’s lips. Soft, warm, parted; Crowley took full advantage, running his hands through Aziraphale’s hair as he did so. 

After a few exceptionally pleasant minutes, Crowley realised that the ache in the pit of his stomach that he had been attributing to increasing levels of arousal, was, in fact, the confounded gear stick. 

“Do you think we should…” Crowley gestured, ineffectively. “Make ourselves more comfortable?”

In an instant, he experienced something that he had never before experienced: he was stark bollock naked in the front seat of his car.

Hastily grabbing the first thing that came to hand to cover the parts of him he thought it might have taken Aziraphale a _little_ longer to discover (_with a sharing packet of fucking Fruit Pastilles?!_), Crowley managed, “That wasn’t exactly what I meant, angel. Not least as, you’re _still fully clothed_.”

“Ah, yes, sorry about that, dear boy…” Aziraphale clicked his fingers as he trailed off, restoring, at least, Crowley’s trousers, top and waistcoat. _I’ll be wanting my belt and necktie back, too_, he thought, but this didn’t exactly seem like the time to raise it.

“I meant, perhaps, we could move to the back seat, give ourselves some more room to… manoeuvre?” Crowley tried again.

At best unwilling to break the spell by leaving the car, but, more likely, just out of sheer awkwardness, Aziraphale clambered to his knees as if to try and fit through the gap between the front seats. 

“It would be easier to get _out_, angel,” Crowley said, with a wry smile.

They exchanged glances, an unspoken moment passing between them. _We’re doing this. Today. In the Bentley. With each other_. Crowley wondered whether he was the only one that added a silent _FUCK_. 

Once in the back seat, they sat as they had in the front, with the middle seat empty between them. Crowley could feel the ache in his heart that even the smallest of gaps was causing; his angel was just too far away. To rectify the situation and remedy the pangs, he slid sidewards, so that they were arm to arm. Taking Aziraphale’s hand, tracing sigils on his palm, Crowley inhaled and exhaled deeply.

“Is this how you thought it would be, angel?” he asked. “Not that… not that I have spent much time thinking about it, obviously.”

Crowley rolled his eyes at his own ineptitude. Firstly, why was he making conversation when he could be... _Aziraphale would say “making whoopee”_, he thought. Secondly, Aziraphale knew what he had been thinking; Aziraphale had _helped him to write_ what he had been thinking!

After a moment’s pause, Aziraphale replied, gazing out of the window. “I never thought that it would happen. My fics, well, they are my dreams, but never my hopes. I thought… I thought that we were destined to be friends forever, which would have been more than tickety-boo for me, dearest, but… well, this seems like a rather better adventure, doesn’t it?”

In that moment, Crowley grabbed at Aziraphale’s shoulders, hauling him round and assailing his face with kisses, whilst he attempted to remove Aziraphale’s jacket. Because Aziraphale was sitting on it, this became a more involved job than he had anticipated, causing him to knock his elbows on the seats as he tried. Letting out an exasperated sigh, Crowley went to click his fingers. Aziraphale caught his hand, a small smirk playing across his face.

“You are, as they say in popular parlance, a snacc - two ‘c’s, you know - and you know how loathe I am to rush food…”

Crowley laughed, lightening the mood and dissipating (some) of his nerves. Aziraphale was quite right; while an odd miracle or two was useful after a late night of drinking, when one insisted on wearing skin-tight trousers, it did rather kill the mood, as Aziraphale had already clumsily demonstrated...

While Crowley died of embarrassment once again, remembering the sticky feel of leather against his all-too-bear arse, Aziraphale calmly removed his jacket, loosened his bow tie and blurted, “I nearly undid my fly, then, but, well, it seemed a little too forward!”

“More forward than a hand to the crotch, angel?” Crowley arched an eyebrow. The tension was back, despite a shared smile, considering what might happen next.

Crowley removed the bow tie, caressing Aziraphale’s neck as he did so. Running his hands down his chest, Crowley undid Aziraphale’s shirt buttons, slowly, carefully, with reverence, revealing a small smattering of blond chest hair. Crowley’s top was harder to remove; whilst neither wanted to remove their hands from each other’s person, it seemed sensible that each should remove their own top halves, so as to save the Bentley’s ceiling from more elbowing. Once half naked, they sat back, bare arms touching side by side, kisses halted for a moment. 

“All I keep thinking,” said Crowley, staring at said ceiling, “is about the fanfic. What we should be doing. I mean, should I be - “ he made quotation marks in the air. “‘Assailing your nipples with my teeth’? ‘Grasping your arse roughly with my bony fingers’?”

Aziraphale gave a wry smile. “I think you would struggle to grasp my ‘arse’ from this position, dearest. I am rather using it, presently, to sit on.”

“You could…” Crowley gestured, realising, too late, that it was in the general direction of his groin.

“Well, yes, I _could_,” said Aziraphale, thoughtfully, “but I’m working up to it, if you don’t mind!”

Crowley ran his hand over his face and through his hair in exasperation. “That wasn’t what I meant! Just that, you could, y’know, sit on me, if you wanted to. Then, well, your arse…”

Crowley let the sentence hang, rather ridiculously, he thought, in the air. 

With a slightly lower wattage Gavotte face, Aziraphale shifted his weight onto his right, raising his left knee and maneuvering clumsily, eventually ending up straddling Crowley’s lap. The nerves of the night ensured that (_for now, I hope just for now..._) the contact currently felt very chaste. Running his hands over Aziraphale’s bare back, up into his hair, Crowley kissed his shoulders, eliciting a small moan. Aziraphale’s arms were draped around Crowley’s neck, head lolling to one side. When their mouths met, nothing else seemed to matter. Nothing, that is, except that Crowley was overheating. He was a _snake_, for Hell’s sake - he _liked_ it warm! Relished it, even! So what was happening here? Could he be… allergic to Aziraphale?! His mind raced with the possibilities, plagues and pestilence filling his thoughts at exactly the wrong moment. Whatever might have been stirring in his trousers quickly dissipated; he needed some air.

“Whatever is the matter, dear boy?” Aziraphale asked, a concerned look on his face.

“Well, y’know that scene in Titanic?” Crowley blurted.

“‘Paint me like one of your French girls?’ Well, yes, Crowley, but there’s really not the room and I’m no Wisesnail!” Aziraphale wore a quizzical expression, biting his bottom lip.

“No, no, I mean in the car. _Obviously_. Do you think they got… overheated?” Crowley said the last word as a squeak, unbearably aware what a mood killer he was being.

“Oh, thank Heavens you mentioned it!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “It’s like being in a greenhouse! You’ll have to crack open a window, dearest, as my leg has gone quite to sleep in this position and I fear for it if I move!”

Crowley let out an epic sigh. “We really are making a hash of this, angel.” He exhaled loudly, once more for good measure. “How about we put the radio on, see if we can’t…” Crowley grimaced, “get back into the mood?”

“An excellent idea. Some bebop may be just what we need!” said Aziraphale, ever the optimist. 

Crowley reached between the seats to switch on the radio. It was clear that “The Bentley Ships It” was an accurate tag if ever there were one, as the piano solo of Queen’s “You Take My Breath Away” kicked in at _just_ the right volume. Crowley leaned back, turning into Aziraphale’s waiting arms, trying, desperately, to bring the romance back to what was fast turning into a calamitous evening.

The notes of the song ringing out, finally, _finally_, everything else seemed to pale into the background. Crowley took the opportunity to sit astride, this time, aware, now, that his effort (and his Effort) was paying off. Their kisses, first hesitant, became more passionate, as Aziraphale raked his perfectly manicured nails down Crowley’s bony spine. When Aziraphale slipped his hand down the waistband of Crowley’s trousers…

...the Bentley had clearly had enough of their shenanigans and “Fat Bottomed Girls” came blaring out of speakers Crowley didn’t even know that he had.

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE!” Crowley wouldn’t be surprised if both the music, and his exasperation, could be heard by the attendees indoors. Jaw set in frustration, he clicked his fingers to restore both him and Aziraphale to their fully-clothed former glory. Seeing the stricken expression on Aziraphale’s face, he leant over to give him the lightest, the tenderest of kisses on his cheek.

“Shall we take this inside?”


	8. The Bedroom

Aziraphale held Crowley’s hand as they walked back in through the double doors of Wycombe Lodge. It was perhaps a little awkward - his grip was slightly too tight and their gaits didn’t quite match, forcing Aziraphale do to occasional little skips to keep up - but it was doing all sorts of ridiculous things to Crowley’s corporation. There was a fluttering feeling in his stomach and his heartbeat kept speeding up, despite his reminders for it to stop all that human nonsense.

Once they stepped through the automatic doors, they paused. The lounge was filled with late night revellers, some playing games, others playing pool, and the group closest to the door was singing as someone played the guitar.

Pleased that they were all too occupied to notice the real angel and demon that had just walked in, hand in hand, Crowley turned to Aziraphale. He opened his mouth to speak, but managed only “Uuuuh…” while he floundered for a less cheesy alternative to “Your place or mine?” But, before his addled brain could supply the words, the music changed to the unmistakable opening chords of _Heaven is a Place on Earth_.

Crowley rolled his eyes and was ready to bolt from the room, but Aziraphale’s face had lit up. Before Crowley could do anything to stop it, he was being dragged over to the singing group and into a chair that was miraculously _just_ large enough for both of them, requiring them to sit with their thighs pressed together. Aziraphale was joining in with the song, still gripping Crowley’s hand, their fingers entwined together. That grip was causing Crowley’s brain to malfunction to the point that, despite himself, he found he, too, was joining in. He would have to wipe everyone’s memories afterwards or he would _never_ live this down…

The guitar player was the demon nun from the quiz, much more relaxed now that they had shed their demonically competitive persona in favour of a happy singalong. As the song drew to a close, Aziraphale laid his head upon Crowley’s shoulder and _nuzzled_. The nun-demon-guitarist started gushing about Crowley’s vid and how “_it made me cry, damn you,_” but all Crowley could concentrate on was the slightly floral scent of Aziraphale’s hair right under his nose, the way his hand gripped his so tightly, the fire-brand of the line where their thighs were pressed together. Since the entire world has evidently been turned upside down, he thanked the former-demon-nun instead of cursing them into oblivion.

“Anyway,” Crowley said, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand, “I think we had… things… to do…”

He tried to make a move to get up, but the song had transitioned to _Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy_. Aziraphale nuzzled him again and said, “Oh, I do love this song…”

_Of course you would_, Crowley thought, _Freddie did write it about you_… Heaving a resigned sigh, he leaned back in the chair and rearranged them so that his arm was around Aziraphale’s shoulders, holding him close. The fingers of his other hand were laced with the angel’s, his thumb tracing circles over the back of Aziraphale’s hand. When Aziraphale swung his legs over Crowley’s, so that he was practically sitting in his lap, Crowley decided he might never move from this spot again. Even when the music meandered through the horrors of Disney on its path back to the ubiquitous Queen, Crowley remained rooted to the spot. By the time the inebriated group was warbling painfully through _Bohemian Rhapsody_, Crowley was openly cradling Aziraphale, stroking his back and dropping occasional kisses into his hair.

When the song was done, a slightly dishevelled Nanny Ashtoreth rolled her eyes at them. “You two need to get a room,” she said, abrasively.

_You can talk_, Crowley thought, throwing a nod and a pointed look in War’s direction. _An unlikely couple, if ever there were one_. He couldn’t bring himself to voice that retort, however, because Aziraphale had tilted his head back and was beaming that heart-melting smile.

“Yes, shall we?” Aziraphale said.

Crowley’s heart shuddered to a halt. He could only manage a series of incoherent noises in response, and he leapt up so suddenly that Aziraphale was gracelessly deposited onto the floor.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Crowley mumbled, pulling Aziraphale back up.

Aziraphale smiled at him, kissed the back of his hand, and said, “Back in a moment, dearest.”

Crowley watched in confusion as he wandered over to the other side of the room. Someone else to say “goodnight” to? No… he was heading to the reading library! He flicked through the boxes, as though looking for something in particular, then triumphantly lifted out a bound fanfiction. Crowley could only watch in confused silence as Aziraphale meandered back, wishing good night to his new fans as he passed. He grasped Crowley’s hand and led him towards the bedrooms.

Once they were out of earshot of the remaining con goers, Crowley said, “Expecting to have time for some bedtime reading, are you?”

Aziraphale held up the fic he had selected; Crowley groaned out loud. It was _his_ fic. The explicit one.

“What?” Aziraphale said, at Crowley’s sounds of protest. “I thought it might be helpful!”

“Helpful?”

“Well, it’s… it’s how we imagined it happening, isn’t it?”

“You want to use it as an _instruction manual_?” said Crowley in disbelief.

“Well,” said Aziraphale primly. “It’s not as though we were getting on expertly _without_ instructions, was it?”

Crowley could hardly argue with that; the nervousness dissipated by the singalong was back in full force. It only got worse when Aziraphale said brightly, “Your place or mine?”

Crowley cringed. “Mine’s right here,” he said, indicating a nearby door.

“Splendid!” Aziraphale did one of his happy wriggles.

Crowley was fighting so hard to keep from laughing that he fumbled with his room key. He tried a few more times and was met only by an ominous red light. With a groan of frustration, he slammed his forehead against the door.

“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale. “Did you keep your room key next to your mobile telephone? You should keep it in the back of your badge.”

Crowley didn’t look, but he knew Aziraphale would be holding up his badge, where he would have tucked his own room key, diligently following the convention organiser’s instructions.

“We’ll have to find the security guard,” Aziraphale continued.

“Nope,” said Crowley, through clenched teeth. A quick miracle later, the door swung open. He gestured for Aziraphale to go in, then followed and closed the door behind them.

So here they were. In Crowley’s bedroom. The bed - in reality, much smaller than the one he had at home - loomed ominously large in the centre of the room. Crowley swallowed nervously.

“Well, then.” Aziraphale was turning the fic over in his hands, casting furtive glances at the offending bed.

“You want to try acting out… that?” Crowley gestured towards the fic.

“Ah, yes…” Aziraphale flipped through the pages. “As I recall, the… relevant scene, so to speak, was, ah, something of a mutual effort…”

Crowley stared blankly, trying to process the fact that Aziraphale had just referenced their night of sexting out loud. It was difficult to wrap his head around, given that he still hadn’t quite processed the fact that the person on the other end of that conversation had been Aziraphale.

“Right! Here we go…” Aziraphale traced the lines with his finger. “So you’re up against the bookshelf… well, I suppose a wall would do…” he looked around the room. There was only one free wall, and barely any space between it and the foot of the bed. Aziraphale gestured towards it, and Crowley obediently took his position.

It felt awkward and unnatural, but his doubts were tempered somewhat when Aziraphale moved to stand in front of him. The lack of space meant he was pressed so close that almost the entire length of their bodies was in contact.

“Hello, my dear,” Aziraphale said radiantly, his face mere inches from Crowley’s. He leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss on the end of Crowley’s nose.

Crowley grumbled in mock irritation, but there was a distinctly warm sensation pooling in his stomach.

“Now, then…” Aziraphale turned to the side to consult the fic he had in one hand. “I’m going to wedge my knee between your thighs… excuse me, dear… and, ah, I should be feeling that you’re making an Effort…” he looked pointedly at Crowley, who decidedly was making an Effort, but it was rather pliant and unobtrusive at this point in the proceedings.

“That’s a bit forward, isn’t it?” Crowley protested. “Don’t you think we should kiss for a bit first?”

Aziraphale consulted the fic again and his brow creased in a frown. “It seems we get right to it, I’m afraid.”

Crowley sighed. “Well, _I_ would like it if you kissed me before you start thinking about anyone’s Efforts.”

“Oh, well, all right…” Aziraphale started to lean in, but Crowley turned his head away.

“Could you at least pretend that you want to kiss me?”

“I like kissing you very much,” Aziraphale insisted, a definite pout starting to form, “but we’ve done that already and I would very much like to get to the part where your penis is in my mouth.”

Crowley’s hips did an involuntary jerk and, despite the intense unsexiness of the situation, his Effort steadily began to become more apparent.

“Oh!” Aziraphale’s face lit up. “Very nice…” As though to reward his Effort, Aziraphale pressed his hips closer and rocked gently. The friction felt wonderful, and Crowley moved with him, his hands clenched uselessly at his sides.

Aziraphale leaned in again to kiss him, and, this time, Crowley allowed it. Their noses bumped and, at one point, their teeth clashed, but, all in all, it was not as clumsy as their earlier attempt. Aziraphale seemed distracted, though; he kept casting furtive glances to the side to consult the damned instructions.

Eventually, Aziraphale broke off the kiss to announce, “I am going to move my hands over your lithe body now.”

_Hands, plural_ was perhaps overstating it; Aziraphale’s right hand was full of that ridiculous fic, so only his left wandered up and down Crowley’s side. Still, it felt nice. Aziraphale’s brow was furrowed again, though.

“Ah, dearest, do you think you could move forwards just a tad?” Aziraphale said. He was trying to wedge his hand behind Crowley’s back, which was firmly pressed against the wall. “My hands should be encircling your waist, you see.”

Crowley obediently canted his hips forward, which had the added bonus of providing some welcome friction against Aziraphale’s thigh.

“That’s it,” Aziraphale said encouragingly. “Now your hands are flailing…” (_No adjustment needed there_, Crowley thought) “but then you grab my hips… uh, whenever you’re ready, I suppose…”

Crowley was ready. He grasped Aziraphale’s hips and shifted him just slightly until their erections came into delicious contact. He threw his head back against the wall and groaned. Aziraphale took the opportunity to start kissing along his jaw and down his throat.

“Oh, you’re doing wonderfully,” Aziraphale murmured against his skin. “You’re so good to me, so very kind, and… By the way,” he suddenly switched to a more businesslike tone, “you want to get angry at me for saying how nice you are, but you’re too busy enjoying the feeling of a desperately hard cock against your thigh.”

Crowley’s entire body jerked at the sound of vulgarity in Aziraphale’s voice and he could feel a damp patch beginning to form on his underwear. “You don’t need to narrate,” he said, between clenched teeth. “And, _actually_, I am currently enjoying the feeling of your desperately hard cock against my desperately hard cock.”

“Jolly good.” Aziraphale returned to his task, pressing firm, wet kisses to the base of Crowley’s throat, the small patch of chest exposed by his open shirt buttons, and along his collarbone. “You can tangle your hands in my hair now, whenever you like.”

Crowley sighed in exasperation, but followed the instructions anyway. Aziraphale’s hair was wonderfully soft and felt lovely twisted around Crowley’s fingers. He gave a small experimental tug, and Aziraphale moaned against his throat. He yanked a little harder; this time, Aziraphale let out a small yelp.

“Not quite so hard, if you please.”

“Sorry.” Crowley smoothed his hands over Aziraphale’s scalp and leaned down to kiss the top of his head.

Aziraphale gave a pleased hum, but then he drew his hips back far enough to break their contact. Crowley let out a grunt of protest, but soon realised Aziraphale was trying to retrieve the hand that was wedged between Crowley’s back and the wall. He shifted to allow the hand its freedom. There was a pause as Aziraphale flexed his newly liberated hand.

“Gone to sleep,” Aziraphale explained with an apologetic smile. He flexed his hand, coaxing the blood flow back into it, and then, “Right,” he set to work on Crowley’s trousers.

“Ah, angel?”

“Mmm hmm?” Aziraphale didn’t look up from his task, which was complicated by the fact that he was trying to accomplish it one handed.

“Don’t you want to take my shirt off before you... dive right in?”

“The fic says I go straight for the trousers.”

“We don’t have to follow it word for word,” Crowley suggested, gently.

“Oh blast these confoundedly tight trousers!” Aziraphale clicked his fingers and Crowley’s fly was miraculously undone. Still with only one hand, Aziraphale awkwardly shoved them down to his knees. Crowley wriggled a little to help. He could already feel his erection starting to wilt.

“We’re _following the instructions_,” Aziraphale said, each word punctuating the tugging of trousers, one side after the other, “because I know this works.” He unceremoniously dropped to his knees and placed a firm kiss against Crowley’s half-hard cock through his underwear.

Crowley wanted to protest that just because _imagining_ this scenario had resulted in mutual orgasms didn’t mean the reality would - after all, their fantasy hadn’t had any of this awkward fumbling - but it was rather difficult to form any sort of coherent sentence when he could feel Aziraphale mouthing the outline of his cock through the thin fabric. Screwing his eyes shut, he felt his fists clench unconsciously in Aziraphale’s hair.

“Mmm, keep doing that,” Aziraphale murmured, his voice muffled against the fabric of Crowley’s underwear.

It was easy enough for Crowley to oblige; Aziraphale’s hair felt soft around his fingers, and it allowed Crowley to subtly guide his head to where he most wanted it.

He felt Aziraphale tug, one-handed, at the side of his underwear and tilted his hips forwards to assist. A particularly sharp tug caught his cock in the waistband and Crowley cried out in pain. Aziraphale let go and sat back on his heels, looking stricken.

“‘S fine,” Crowley said, through clenched teeth. “Here, I’ll…” he gingerly took off his own underwear and tossed them across the room.

Taking a moment to survey the scene, he felt suddenly ridiculous. His cock, less than half hard now, was jutting out from under his shirt. Aziraphale, still fully clothed, knelt in front of him, biting his lip and eyeing his flagging erection nervously.

“We can try something else?” Crowley suggested.

“In a minute.” The expression on Aziraphale’s face became determined, his jaw set firm, and he leaned forwards. Eyes flickering up to meet Crowley’s, Aziraphale tentatively touched the head of his cock with just the tip of his tongue.

It was barely even a touch, certainly not enough to be called a lick, but it sent a jolt along Crowley’s spine and he threw his head back... where it collided painfully with the wall. His resulting “Oof!” caused Aziraphale to jump backwards once again, where he, in turn, collided with the foot of the bed.

Crowley sighed. “That wasn’t you, it was...” he gestured towards the wall, gingerly rubbing the back of his head.

“Oh. Are you all right?”

“Yeah, fine.” Crowley shifted awkwardly, his hands dropping uselessly to his sides. “Uh, carry on. If you want.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath as though steeling himself, then lunged forwards, taking the full length of Crowley’s cock into his mouth at once. Crowley stifled a moan and twisted his hands back in Aziraphale’s hair. He wasn’t quite applying enough pressure, but the wet heat of Aziraphale’s mouth felt pleasant. “Ah,” he sighed. “That’s - OUCH!”

Aziraphale released him with an obscene slurp, a string of saliva connecting his lip to the tip of Crowley’s cock. “Wall?” he ventured.

Crowley shook his head, wincing. “Teeth.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked down at the fic with a frown. “Sorry. I knew I should have practised on a banana.”

Before he could stop himself, Crowley was snorting with laughter. Aziraphale glared at him, affronted, and then, with a heavy sigh, scrambled to his feet. He winced as he stood, grumbling, “No-one ever says how tough this is on the knees...”

Once Aziraphale was standing in front of him, he hesitantly met Crowley’s eyes and then looked away at the window, the carpet, and then the door. “Perhaps I should…” he gestured with his head towards the door.

“No,” Crowley grasped his hand, then dropped it. “I mean, you can, if you want. But I’d like you to stay.”

“Oh, but Crowley…” Aziraphale bit his lip, looking dejected. “This isn’t going right at _all_.”

“Hey,” Crowley lifted his hand to Aziraphale’s face and ran a thumb over his cheekbone. When Aziraphale’s gaze flickered hesitantly up to him, Crowley leaned in and kissed him softly. At first, Aziraphale held himself rigid, but Crowley felt him gradually melt into the kiss. When his lips parted beneath Crowley’s tongue, Crowley reached down to take the fic from Aziraphale’s hand and tossed it aside. He broke off the kiss and said, “If it’s all right with you, I’m going to undress you now, and then we’re going to get into bed, where there are no walls to bang our heads on.”

Aziraphale looked bashful, replying only with a nod. The pomp and circumstance of having the fic to follow had evaporated; it was just the two of them. True to his word, Crowley began by pulling open Aziraphale’s bow tie, a soft smile on his face as he did so. Shedding their layers was much easier than in the Bentley (_why didn’t we think of this earlier?!?!_) and Crowley made a point of laying Aziraphale’s jacket, waistcoat and shirt carefully to one side before removing his own. Still neither spoke, as Aziraphale joined Crowley in removing his shoes, trousers and underwear. The hotel’s strip lighting seemed to exacerbate their nakedness, their shyness; they stood, at arm’s length, with nervous faces and deflated Efforts.

Crowley inhaled deeply and exhaled loudly. With tenderness in his voice, he said, “Come on, angel. Let’s get this over with. We have the rest of our lives to get it right.”

As if a weight had been lifted, Aziraphale beamed the most glorious of smiles, extending his hand with a deep blush. Crowley took it, leading him to the bed, where they took a moment to undo the hotelier’s too-tight wedging of the duvet to get under the covers. It only took Crowley a moment to realise that he had orchestrated this in the wrong order; to turn out the lights now would mean a naked dash to the door, with Aziraphale’s waiting gaze.

“Uh, angel? Are we leaving the light on?”

The stare with which Aziraphale met Crowley’s eyes took his breath away. 

“Young men’s love then lies not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes… Crowley, my dearest, of course you are in my heart, but, at the present moment, it is not my heart that is thinking for me…” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.

_How could I have missed the fact that Aziraphale is the only entity on Earth that would think Shakespeare is an appropriate seduction technique in 2019?!_ thought Crowley. The thought caused a smile to play at the corner of his mouth, easing his tension. They were in this together, on their own side; if the powers of Heaven and Hell couldn’t tear them apart, a night in High Wycombe would certainly not succeed.

Buoyed by his own (uncharacteristic) optimism, Crowley lifted his hand to stroke Aziraphale’s face, marvelling at the softness of his skin. Aziraphale closed his eyes, lying motionless under Crowley’s touch, basking in the moment. Taking full advantage, Crowley stroked his neck, his chest, tangling his fingers in chest hair before lightly grazing a nipple. Aziraphale’s eyes opened, albeit less languidly and more startled than Crowley would have hoped for.

“Is everything OK, angel? Slightly surprised at your reaction to a nipple, given…” Crowley’s cock twitched at the memory of being in Aziraphale’s mouth.

“Oh, goodness, it’s not that - you’ve read my work, Crowley,” Aziraphale smirked, before huffing. “I was just thinking that I can’t just _lie_ here; I am no pillow Principality!” 

_Clearly a sore point_, thought Crowley, somewhat bemused. 

Aziraphale wriggled closer to Crowley, laying his arm across him to stroke the length of his bony spine. Crowley could feel the heat radiating from Aziraphale; even the lightest of touches was making him crave more. He matched Aziraphale’s wriggle, taking the time to rearrange a pillow in the centre of the bed, which their red and blond hair now graced. The lengths of their bodies were now pressed together, and closer still when Aziraphale moved his knee to hook himself between Crowley’s legs, and pressed his thigh firmly up against Crowley’s balls. 

Crowley let out a groan, the pressure and the proximity bordering on too much for his already hard and increasingly aching cock. For the second time that weekend, he thought, _Buck up, Crowley_! His earlier assertion that nothing could tear them apart seemed perilously false if he couldn’t last a little while longer - perhaps until he was touched, at least?!

With thoughts of Hastur helping to detract from Aziraphale’s all-encompassing closeness, Crowley began to stroke Aziraphale’s side and over his plush arse, eliciting a shiver and a small giggle.

“Ticklish, angel?” teased Crowley, who was finally beginning to relax. “Where is it worst, I wonder?”

“You… demon, you!” murmured Aziraphale, increasingly breathless as Crowley continued to roam his hands across his body, to stroke, to tease. 

With a thigh still firmly wedged between Crowley’s legs and his head now lolling back on the pillow, Crowley was more confident that they had found their rhythm. He exploratively began to brush his fingers lightly across Aziraphale’s inner thigh and was rewarded by feeling his cock twitch. It took little more than a nudge to encourage Aziraphale to lie back (_Pillow Principality indeed_, Crowley smirked), at which point Crowley snuggled up against his side, in part just to be close, in part to press his cock against Aziraphale’s thigh and show his angel exactly how he felt about him.

Pressing his head on Aziraphale’s chest also served two purposes. The first, if Crowley was looking downwards, he could avoid meeting Aziraphale’s eyes and risking embarrassment setting in once more. However (he was a demon, after all), the primary reason was to marvel at Aziraphale’s rather spectacular cock. Now they were taking their time, Crowley saw no reason not to spend a few moments gazing; languidly stroking Aziraphale’s inner thigh, occasionally the brush of his thumb over his balls, seemed to be doing absolutely no harm at all…

Aziraphale gave a small, and exceedingly polite, cough. Without moving his head, or questioning the reason behind the noise, Crowley began to lightly run his palm up and down Aziraphale’s cock. The resulting noise was far from polite; clearly, Crowley had followed the stage directions as requested. Achingly aware of needing attention, Crowley pressed himself harder into Aziraphale’s thigh as he mapped his length with his fingertips, brushing the head and savouring the experience.

With his other hand underneath Aziraphale, there was a limited amount that he could do; but, perhaps that was for the best, given previous attempts. Aziraphale seemed to be giving no complaints, after all…

Staying slow, staying steady, Crowley finally took Aziraphale in his grasp, firmly and decisively. Nothing could go wrong from here on out. The miracled lubricant (_not frivolous; expedient and necessary_, Crowley smirked once again) was welcomed, providing just the right amount of friction for Aziraphale to begin to buck his hips up to meet Crowley’s quickening fist. 

After this evening’s… escapades, Crowley wondered about the sense of trying to move to kiss Aziraphale without breaking his grasp - he didn’t want to wrench the damn thing off; he had plans, after all! Gingerly, he slowed his movements, eliciting both a disgruntled noise and a definite pout from Aziraphale, whose face he could now see. Propped up on his elbows, he leant down to kiss the angel who was, perhaps completely subconsciously, perhaps not, searching for something to press himself against. Crowley obliged, this time with his thigh between Aziraphale’s legs, and Aziraphale _moved_, teasing Crowley with his hardness.

_Hastur’s frog. Beezlebub’s flies. No, not files, too close to the trouser department. Gabriel. Just Gabriel._

All thoughts were lost when Aziraphale turned his attention to Crowley’s cock, repositioning them both so that they could feel each other’s hardness against their own. Kissing, messy with lips and teeth and tongue, seemed not to matter in this moment as it had in others; Crowley was desperate for Aziraphale’s touch and it seemed the angel felt no differently. Crowley’s wiles got the better of him; _if anyone is going to come first, it had better not be me. I’ll never live it down_, he thought, careful not to grimace lest Aziraphale think there was anything wrong. 

Everything was far from wrong as, with both hands now free, he could recommence his grasp and find out _exactly_ where the angel was ticklish. The moans Aziraphale gave as Crowley dragged his knuckles firmly across his tightening balls was obscene - and Crowley loved it. He was focused on providing Aziraphale with a memorable experience, because, had he focused on his own experience, he would have discorporated on the spot. Aziraphale’s grasp was determined, measured and methodical, just like Aziraphale himself. Varying speeds were doing all manner of wonderful things to Crowley’s insides, a fact that he couldn’t afford to give even a passing thought to at the present moment.

Finally lost in the moment, sweat and scents and obscenities mingling to make the conference centre bedroom a “den of iniquity”, as Shadwell might say, Aziraphale came with a cry, as if surprised. That was enough for Crowley; he followed in quick succession, shuddering with pleasure before resting his head, once again, on Aziraphale’s chest. Their breaths rose and fell together, deep with the weight of 6,000 years of longing now satisfied.

For tonight, at least.

Crowley beamed, an uncharacteristic display on his face, but warranted. They had done it. No-one had lost a limb, or got concussion, or discorporated. _Temptation accomplished_, he thought. Turning to face Aziraphale, he said, “Small miracle, angel? You wanted to follow the fic, remember, and I know how it ends… and it’s not like this.” He gestured to the wet patch with a warm smile on his face.

“Well yes, quite,” said Aziraphale, business-like tone returning whilst he took care of the sheets, miracling them both clean and unwrinkled, ready for the rest of their night ahead. 

His demeanour softened as Crowley murmured, “Next time, it’ll be my turn. Time after that, yours. Etcetera. Got to have some ground rules in this relationship” - he yawned - “I know how you like your rules and regulations…”

“Relationship?” asked Aziraphale, hope writ large on his open face. “Next time?”

“Tomorrow morning, I hope,” grinned Crowley, as he threw his arms around Aziraphale and nuzzled close.


	9. The Nice Sex (TM)

Crowley woke early, twisted at a peculiar angle and curled against something deliciously warm. He stretched and unconsciously nuzzled closer to the source of the warmth.

“Good morning, my dear,” said a bright, familiar voice just above him.

With some effort, Crowley forced his eyes open. He was naked, and draped over an equally naked Aziraphale, their legs casually entwined. Aziraphale was holding a book over Crowley’s head with one hand, while the other carded through Crowley’s hair.

“You didn’t sleep?” Crowley mumbled.

“I don’t care for it.” Aziraphale ran his hand down Crowley’s neck and along his shoulder blade, eliciting a small shiver, but, when Crowley looked up he saw Aziraphale was still concentrating on his book.

“What’cha reading?” Crowley asked, burrowing against Aziraphale’s side.

“The convention zine.” Aziraphale’s hand moved back up to his hair.

“Wait,” Crowley froze. “You’re reading _fanfiction_ again? After last night…?”

“Yes, dear,” said Aziraphale, freeing his hand to turn a page before returning it to Crowley’s hair.

“About… us?” Crowley pressed on.

“Of course.”

Crowley hauled himself up onto one elbow to look down at Aziraphale, who finally glanced away from the zine to meet his gaze. Crowley glared at the offending book, and then back at Aziraphale. “While you’re _in bed with me_?” he said.

Aziraphale sighed and pulled Crowley back down to lay his head on his chest. Crowley went, but made an incoherent, grumbling sound. Sure, last night may not have gone _exactly_ as planned, but they’d got there in the end, hadn’t they? The idea that Aziraphale still needed fanfiction…

“Oh, don’t pout, dear,” said Aziraphale. “I just wanted to read this,” he shook the zine lightly, “so that I could compliment the authors in person before we leave.”

Crowley grunted, petulantly.

“And, well,” Aziraphale continued, a little delicately, “I thought perhaps a human perspective…”

Crowley groaned aloud and pressed his face against Aziraphale’s chest. “I thought we agreed using fanfiction as an instruction manual was a bad idea,” he said.

“I can’t hear you like that,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley sighed and lifted his head to look at Aziraphale. He was smiling in that bright, innocent way that suggested he had, in fact, heard _exactly_ what Crowley said and was just being a bastard. Crowley flopped back down onto his chest, cursing how hopelessly in love he was. He heaved a dramatic sigh. “Well, want to read it out?”

“Oh…” Aziraphale went still, but then did a little wriggle. “Yes, why not? Though I should warn you, this next one is rated Mature…”

“I’m not an innocent, angel.”

“Well, quite…” Aziraphale dropped a kiss onto his head. “Are you comfortable?”

“Exquisitely.”

“Then I shall begin... “ Aziraphale cleared his throat and began to read, “‘Of all the things ever to baffle the legions of the damned, humanity’s preoccupation with sex was at the top of the list.’... Ah, are you all right, dear?”

“Mmm hmm.” Crowley, who had felt a strange feeling wash over him at the tiny little thing of hearing Aziraphale say the word ‘sex’ out loud, tried consciously to relax, while cursing himself for suggesting this terrible plan.

Aziraphale continued, and Crowley was quite content to let the words wash over him, enjoying the sound of Aziraphale’s voice. He closed his eyes and snuggled against Aziraphale’s side (though he would, of course, vociferously deny being capable of any such things as _snuggling_). He was almost drifting off, when:

“‘So, enjoying all the orgies, are we?’” Aziraphale said, in a most peculiar drawl.

Crowley’s eyes shot open. “Uh, angel? Was that… was that supposed to be an impression of me?”

“Yes, dear,” Aziraphale ran fingers through his hair. “I assure you, it was quite flawless.”

“I don’t sound anything like that.”

“As you say, my dear. Do you wish for me to continue?” 

Crowley, who had only just realised the _massive_ flaw in this ridiculous plan, wasn’t really sure that he did, but he grumbled his assent anyway.

The story continued through an excruciating description of Crowley’s earlier fumbled and unsatisfying experiments with sex, which probably would have been hilarious except for how horrifyingly close to the truth the descriptions were. This was the worst idea Crowley had ever had; worse than sexting with an anonymous angel and following him to High Bloody Wycombe. Even worse than trying to seduce said formerly-anonymous angel in the Bentley.

He only marginally relaxed as the story moved into some amusing biscuit-related metaphors, when Aziraphale stopped.

“Is that it?” Crowley sighed with relief, glad the ordeal was over.

“Not quite.” Aziraphale took a deep breath and continued, “‘Crowley kissed him.’”

So Crowley did, long and hard and messy, clambering so that he was fully astride Aziraphale, pinning his arms to the bed at his sides. Crowley felt himself begin to harden against Aziraphale’s stomach and rocked his hips gently.

Aziraphale stilled him with a hand on the small of his back and broke off the kiss. “If you don’t mind, my dear, there’s only a page to go…”

Crowley groaned in frustration, but freed Aziraphale’s arms. He began kissing down Aziraphale’s throat as he continued his reading.

“‘It turned out that kissing Aziraphale was the most deeply arousing thing that Crowley had ever experienced,’” Aziraphale read.

“Mmm hmm,” the real Crowley agreed.

He enjoyed the rest of the story a lot more, and was even willing to give Aziraphale a pass for his Crowley voice (which was really quite accurate, though Crowley would never admit as much). He managed to distract himself from the building arousal in his groin by focusing very carefully on kissing and licking Aziraphale’s collarbone, and was holding himself together quite nicely until Aziraphale read the line, “‘Crowley. Do you want to have sex with me?’”

“Yes,” the real Crowley growled.

“Actually,” said Aziraphale, “the line in the story is ‘_Fuck_ yes.’”

Hearing profanity from Aziraphale always made Crowley’s innards do a strange, swirly thing. He groaned aloud and repeated, “_Fuck_ yes,” before kissing back up Aziraphale’s throat, along his jaw, and tracing his ear with a slightly forked tongue.

Aziraphale’s Crowley voice said, “‘I just - I don’t want it to be bad,” and Crowley hesitated, reminded of the previous night’s debacles.

In his own voice, Aziraphale read his response, “‘If it is then we’ll just try again. Or try something differe-”

The end of the last word was smothered as Crowley kissed him soundly on the mouth. With resolve, he lifted himself up, eyes glinting. “Ready for something different?”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale a little breathlessly. He set aside the zine and slid his hands around Crowley’s waist. “Oh, yes…”

Crowley dived down to kiss at the base of Aziraphale’s throat, while Aziraphale stretched his neck and made a most _intriguing_ mewling sound. The skin there was slightly rough, and Crowley laved it with his tongue, enjoying the texture. He then began, with slight trepidation, to saunter vaguely downwards. He felt a little silly trailing kisses across Aziraphale’s chest, but feeling Aziraphale squirm beneath him helped. The gasps elicited when Crowley’s tongue flicked over one nipple and then the other spurred him on downwards, where he paused to unabashedly nuzzle at the soft roundness of Aziraphale’s belly.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured. His hands fluttered briefly over Crowley’s hair before falling to clutch the sheets at his sides. “Should I…?”

“Let me,” said Crowley. “Just for now…” He dipped his tongue into Aziraphale’s navel, and Aziraphale squirmed. Crowley looked up and cocked an eyebrow. “Ticklish?”

“Absolutely not,” said Aziraphale, primly.

Crowley grinned and filed that information away for later, before shifting further down the bed. Eye level with Aziraphale’s Effort, the nerves began to set in again. Crowley wasn’t entirely sure what to do here, what Aziraphale might like, and the cock in front of him was firm against the angel’s stomach, as though heavy with expectation. Crowley glanced upwards, and saw that Aziraphale was looking anxiously down at him, biting his lip. Crowley’s need to reassure Aziraphale overcame his own nerves; he held Aziraphale’s gaze while he purposefully ran his tongue along the ridge from the base to just under the head. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it made Aziraphale let out a delightful keening sound and arch his back so that his cock pressed against Crowley’s tongue. Encouraged, Crowley took the head into his mouth (taking care to shield his teeth…) and sucked. Aziraphale gasped and clenched his fists in the sheets.

Aziraphale’s responsiveness was exactly what Crowley needed to dissipate his few remaining nerves. He gradually took more of the length into his mouth, before lifting his head all the way off and plunging back down again. The sounds Aziraphale was making were both obscene and wonderful, none more so that the occasional punctuation of surprised gasps of his name (“_Crowley_!” - he would never be able to watch that Bastille scene again without thinking of this moment). Crowley settled into a rhythm, sucking and licking and committing every panted syllable firmly to memory. Aziraphale began to buck his hips, thrusting into Crowley’s mouth; Crowley slid his hands around Aziraphale’s hips to his arse to encourage him.

Before long, Aziraphale was repeating his name frantically, “Crowley, Crowley, Crowley,” and then with particular urgency, “_Crowley_.”

Crowley looked up. Aziraphale met his gaze and gasped, “I’m going to - “

Crowley grinned as best he could around his mouthful and held Aziraphale’s hips steady as he sucked hard. There was a startled, breathy, “_Oh_, Crowley,” and then a briny flavour spread over Crowley’s tongue. He swallowed it and gave one last suck, causing Aziraphale to jerk. Crowley let the cock slip from his mouth and placed a kiss against Aziraphale’s inner thigh, then lifted himself back up and buried his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale sighed, gathering Crowley into his arms, “that was quite wonderful.”

“Mmm,” Crowley agreed against the skin of the angel’s neck. It was a struggle for his brain to catch up to the fact that the lingering taste in his mouth was _Aziraphale_; he’d been dreaming of this for so long he couldn’t quite compute the reality. He had just had Aziraphale’s cock in his mouth, and Aziraphale had orgasmed with Crowley’s name on his tongue. Crowley had had this dream many times before, but dreams didn’t taste, smell, _feel_ like this. He swallowed again, unconsciously rocking his hips against Aziraphale’s thigh.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale said, “of course, you’re still… here…” Aziraphale began to shift as though to swap their positions, but then went still. “Ah, unless… perhaps, would you like to…?” Aziraphale shifted again to settle Crowley on top of him, opening his legs and bringing his knees up on either side of Crowley’s waist.

Crowley slowly moved just far enough to be able to see Aziraphale’s face. He had an open, almost pleading expression. Crowley kissed him, remembering too late where his mouth had just been, but Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind; he deepened the kiss greedily and wound his arms around Crowley’s waist to hold him tight.

By the time Crowley broke off the kiss, he was painfully hard and almost shaking with the effort it took not to rut mindlessly. He glanced down, to where Aziraphale’s legs were spread in clear invitation, and swallowed. “Would, I, uh, like to…?” he prompted.

“Ah,” Aziraphale’s hands twitched against his back. “If you want to, of course, that is, I would very much like to feel you inside me.”

“Ngk.” Crowley collapsed against Aziraphale, burying his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck.

Aziraphale went still. “Only if you want to, of course,” he said, a little hesitantly.

“You always write it the other way around,” Crowley mumbled into Aziraphale’s neck.

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale conceded, “and I would like to try that too, but right now I would quite like you to, ah, take the lead, as it were… if that’s all right..?”

Crowley nodded furiously. Then, realising Aziraphale couldn’t see him at this angle, mumbled, “Yes, I want to. Just… gimme a minute…”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said brightly. “Jolly good.” He ran one hand down Crowley’s spine, soothing, and Crowley had to bite back a whimper.

_Hastur_, Crowley thought, frantically. Hastur’s frog. Hastur and Ligur getting it on while the frog and the chameleon watch.

“All right,” Crowley said at last, placing a kiss just under Aziraphale’s jaw. “Do you have any…” he made a vague hand gesture that he hoped could be translated as ‘lubricant’.

“Ah, no need,” said Aziraphale. “A quite necessary use of a miracle, I believe.”

“Right, yeah, of course.” Crowley took a deep, steadying breath and knelt back. Aziraphale’s cock was half-hard again, and, below that, his balls were heavy and firm. Crowley traced the tip of his finger over the patch of skin just behind, towards the shadowy cleft of his arse. “Are you sure about this?”

By way of response, Aziraphale made a whimpering sound and hooked his hands under his knees to pull his legs back. In this position, he was spread wide, revealing a tiny pink pucker. Crowley circled the small hole with his finger, watching it twitch. He bit his lip, thinking, not unpleasantly, of Aziraphale’s ‘licking butt’ comment of many moons ago, but said, “I’m… just considering the logistics, angel.”

Aziraphale gave a small gasp when Crowley touched him there, and there was a pleading tone to his voice as he insisted, “Humans do this all the time. I’m sure it’s all right.”

He was right, of course; humans did do this all the time. Reassuringly, they also weren’t limited to what humans could do. Taking a deep breath, as if to steel himself, Crowley gently pressed his finger inside. Because he imagined that it would go easily and that the way would be nicely slick, that was just what happened. He couldn’t have imagined the way the ring of muscle gripped his finger so tightly, though, and seemed to draw him in further.

He’d read about this in enough fanfiction to know what to do next; he crooked his finger towards himself, expecting Aziraphale to leap off the bed in ecstasy. That didn’t quite happen, but Aziraphale did give a small hum of encouragement, so Crowley repeated the gesture again and again, until Aziraphale was groaning aloud.

“Do you need more?” Crowley asked, pressing a second finger against Aziraphale’s entrance to indicate what he meant.

“No,” said Aziraphale. “Just your penis, please.” The bookkeeper voice was back and Crowley found it somewhat of a turn on, now the Bentley fiasco was in the… _rear view mirror_. 

“Right.” Crowley shook his head and stared blankly for a moment, as his brain raced to catch up. He looked down at where his finger was wedged inside Aziraphale’s body, held so tightly by clenching muscles. Then he looked at his cock, heavy and firm. It would take a miracle for it to fit in there…but he was certainly going to give it a try, not least as miracles were a thing he _knew_ he could do. 

Carefully, he withdrew his finger; Aziraphale’s arsehole twitched and closed up, impossibly small but delightfully tempting. Crowley lined up the head of his cock and pressed lightly against the tiny entrance, and then he concentrated, hard, on believing that Aziraphale was open and slick and just exactly the right size for - 

He slid inside so suddenly that he fell forwards, just catching himself with his hands either side of Aziraphale’s head. Aziraphale beamed up at him, one of those effervescent smiles that made him glow, and Crowley had to squeeze his eyes shut to keep from climaxing there and then.

For a moment, he just held himself taut, until his arms began to tremble. _Beelzebub riding Gabriel_, he thought frantically. _Backwards. With flies buzzing around them_.

“Ah, is everything all right?” said Aziraphale.

“Yeah. Great,” said Crowley, through clenched teeth.

“Well, this does feel wonderful, but, if it’s not too much of an imposition, do you think you might care to... move?”

Crowley’s eyes flew open and he hurriedly checked that he wasn’t accidentally crushing Aziraphale with his hands or knees. As if to punctuate his point, Aziraphale lifted his hips. He didn’t have much room where Crowley was pinning him to the bed at the point where they were joined, but even that tiny movement caused a jolt through Crowley’s entire body. With great effort, Crowley pulled almost all the way out and rocked back in. Beneath him, Aziraphale let out a small, surprised, “_Oh_,” which almost discorporated Crowley on the spot.

There was nothing else for it; he couldn’t have mental images of Gabriel’s smug face marring this experience, so it was going to take a miracle for him to last longer than a single thrust. He idly wondered how many sex-related miracles he could get away with before Downstairs took notice. He’d got away with a millennium of performing blessings as part of the Arrangement, though, so hopefully he had a little while yet.

Newly confident this wasn’t all about to end too soon, Crowley thrust again and, this time, the warmth that flooded through him lacked the urgency of imminent orgasm. He leaned down and kissed Aziraphale as he settled into a steady rhythm. He still wasn’t quite used to this being a thing he was allowed to do; the softness of Aziraphale’s lips still caught him by surprise. Aziraphale showed no hesitance in parting his lips for Crowley’s tongue, and even indulged him with a low, desperate moan, as though Crowley was the most exquisite delicacy he had ever tasted. It reminded Crowley of crepes in Paris; the obscene pleasure Aziraphale took in simple carbohydrates! Oh, and in Crowley’s imagination, he could now picture taking Aziraphale right there and then in that ridiculous finery he’d been wearing in his prison cell - those _stockings_…

A delicious shudder coursed through Crowley’s body. Aziraphale broke off the kiss to ask, “Is everything all right?”

“Mmm,” Crowley nodded. “Very.”

Aziraphale gave him a shy smile. “You can... come inside me, if you want to.”

“Ngk.” Crowley collapsed against him, trembling, his thrusts subsiding to a shallow, unsteady rocking of hips.

For six thousand years, he’d fantasised about this, but not once had his wildest imaginations come close to the reality of his angel, real and solid beneath him, making little jerky motions of his own. It felt like Crowley’s entire body was on fire, inside and out, and not even a miracle could bank the waves much longer. Aziraphale’s hands came up to his hips, guiding him deeper and faster and harder, and Aziraphale whispered, “Come for me, my dear.”

Crowley let out a humiliating whimper as he climaxed, buried deep in Aziraphale’s body. Another wave of sensation swept over him, stretching him thin, before cold seeped through him, and he was still.

He lifted his head from Aziraphale’s chest, and saw a bemused but fond smile on Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale lifted one hand to stroke over Crowley’s snake-head, and traced one finger down the cool scales of Crowley’s back.

“Well,” said Aziraphale. “Hello again, my dear. A snake for the second time this weekend? I _am_ honoured!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to fantasticallyobscure for allowing us to use their The Ineffable Con zine fic for Aziraphale and Crowley's instruction manual <3  
[The End (of the Beginning), or A Not-So-Nice or Accurate Guide to Sex on a Stick, By Anthony J. Crowley, Demon.](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/The_Ineffable_Con_Zine/works/21197753)


	10. The (not really) Angst

When one has lived on Earth for over six thousand years, one finds oneself, eventually, in all sorts of improbable situations. Aziraphale could take most of them in his stride: chained up in the Bastille? A mere inconvenience. Double crossed by Nazis? Tiresome. But the situation he found himself in on that Sunday morning in Buckinghamshire was something else entirely.

He was naked, and in bed. Already an uncommon experience for one not accustomed to sleeping, made more disconcerting by the fact that his backside was... aching. Another source of discomfort made itself known: the feeling of ejaculate seeping as he moved to a sitting position. In his fics, that always felt rather wicked and decadent, but in reality - especially in these most peculiar circumstances - it was a little uncomfortable and more than a little embarrassing. Aziraphale mulled over the situation; indeed, sex in fics always did seem without hassle, and yet Crowley and he had experienced seemingly every challenge in the book. Considering the enormity of the situation, however, was rather testing with a large red and black snake draped over him, not to mention the fact he was quite aroused, his cock having grown back to full hardness after this morning’s escapades.

To provide a sense of normality, he hastily miracled away the mess, cleaning the sheets, too, for good measure (Heavens, no need to subject the cleaning staff to the evidence of their activities!) He then gave Crowley a somewhat shy smile and scratched gently between his eyes.

“I understand that I am somewhat well-known for writing this… situation, but, my dear, we do have an eternity ahead of us; perhaps best to leave some things for experimentation later, don’t you think?”

Crowley’s head darted under the pillow.

“Oh. Well.” Aziraphale awkwardly stroked the part of Crowley’s body that lay over his belly and sighed. It was silly to feel disappointed - they _did_ have an eternity ahead of them, after all - but they had just been getting into the groove and there was still so much more he wanted to try, not to mention the desire to practice, practice, practice until it became less...awkward. Still, panels to attend, cocoa to drink… Cocoa… With another need making itself known to his body, Aziraphale (only somewhat resignedly) miracled his erection down.

Aziraphale turned his head to kiss the part of Crowley peeking out from under the pillow. “Just going to make some cocoa, my dear; I shall return shortly.” Aziraphale swung his legs over the side of the bed and began rifling through Crowley’s convention goody bag - he was certain he had spotted a superlative cocoa sample therein. As though in protest, although unclear as to whether about Aziraphale moving, or him rifling through _Crowley’s_ goody bag, Crowley’s tail came around Aziraphale’s waist and held him down against the bed.

“All right,” Aziraphale chided. “I’m only going over there!” He gestured towards the kettle in the corner of the room, then realised that Crowley - whose head was still buried under a pillow - couldn’t see him. “Really, my dear, you’re going to have to come out at some point!” With an angelic strength he normally concealed, he disentangled himself from Crowley’s coils and climbed out of bed. Crowley gave an audible hiss of protest.

While he filled the kettle in the bathroom sink, Aziraphale looked at himself in the mirror. Other than his hair being a little dishevelled, he looked the same as always. Odd, that he could look the same when he felt like an entirely different person than he’d been yesterday. Was it really only _yesterday_ that his love for Crowley had been a secret, a fantasy?

The kettle overfilled and spilled water over Aziraphale’s hand. A muttered curse and a miracle later, the kettle was on and he was dressed in the clothes Crowley had carefully laid aside the night before. Crowley’s head finally emerged from under the pillow and watched him tie his bow tie. Snakes couldn’t pout, but this one was definitely, _defiantly_ pouting.

“Don’t give me that look,” Aziraphale muttered. “I’m not going to lounge around naked with you in that shape. As I said - another time, I’d be delighted - but not today!” He glared at Crowley, hoping he would resume his human form, but he remained stubbornly snake-like. “Well, then.”

Aziraphale made his cocoa and climbed back onto the bed. Crowley curled around him, although he still managed to look somewhat petulant. Aziraphale gave the back of his head a consolatory kiss. “This is all a little overwhelming, isn’t it?” he said.

By way of answer, Crowley slithered up to nuzzle at his neck. “Yes,” Aziraphale murmured, running the tips of his fingers over the cool scales of Crowley’s back, “I know.”

As he sipped his cocoa, he thought about the day ahead. It was the last day of the convention. Their...amorous activities had conspired against them to miss the much anticipated queerbaiting and fanfiction panels, which Aziraphale had really wanted to attend. He’d had so much fun attending panels the previous day, being able to talk so freely and openly about things he’d kept secret for so long. It might - he realised with a start - mean that the stories he’s written were no longer necessary; he could share thoughts previously shared only with strangers, with _Crowley_. That said, everyone here had been so lovely and so welcoming, he was keen not to lose touch (or - he shook his head at his own vanity - lose the compliments on his waistcoat. They were also rather lovely…)

As he drained the last of his cocoa, Aziraphale leaned down to kiss Crowley’s scales. “My dear,” he said, “breakfast ends in twenty minutes. Do you think you might come? Or would you prefer to stay here?”

Crowley began to move, slithering up and around Aziraphale’s neck until he was twisted around in loops. “Well, now,” Aziraphale muttered, “that’s _most_ unhelpful.”

He tried to lift Crowley over his head, but this only resulted in the coils being wrapped more tightly around his neck. Aziraphale sighed, exasperated. “Do you want to come to breakfast like this?”

Crowley lifted his head and gave a distinct, firm nod.

“I rather think the humans might discorporate, if their behaviour with the snakes yesterday was anything to go by...” Aziraphale pointed out.

Could snakes shrug? That was definitely a shrug.

*********

Aziraphale could hear the hubbub of the dining room long before he, and his new (and yet wonderfully familiar) ‘scarf’, reached it. Knowing full well that Cloud Nine was just another one of Heaven’s stock rooms, he decided “walking on sunshine” best fit his mood, and began to hum correspondingly. His heart, his head; both were full of Crowley, and he could not have been more content.

The clatter of knives, forks and spoons intermingled with the contented chatter of con-goers, now friends. As Aziraphale entered the dining room, heads began to turn, one after the other, silence falling… but only for a moment. Shrieks soon erupted, questioning how Aziraphale got to keep one of the snakes, can they _hold_ him, and, and… (he gave a smug smile in Crowley’s direction - he had, _of course_, been right about everyone’s reaction).

Whilst the conference centre scrambled eggs were unlikely to get a Michelin star any time soon, Aziraphale savoured them less for the flavour and more for the atmosphere. He let the noise wash over him. The warmth in the room was overwhelming, the excitement effervescent, and he could have basked in it all day. Crowley seemed to feel the same, winding between people, pausing for the occasional photo. With a steaming mug of tea and an ache in his chest that could only be called love, Aziraphale never wanted this moment to end.

Crowley, for his part, appeared to be enjoying the attention. He seemed particularly fond of Anathemmawww, the lovely Northern Irish lady Aziraphale remembered registering on the first day (_only two days ago, really?_).

“He’s gorgeous,” Anathemmawww said, looking up from tickling under Crowley’s chin. “Is he yours?”

“Well, not so much…” Aziraphale caught himself. “Ah, that is to say, yes, he is. Or one could just as easily say that I am his…”

“Aww, demanding is he?” Anathemmawww did something that Aziraphale had learned was termed ‘booping the snoot’ and Crowley gave her what was - to Aziraphale’s eye at least - a petulant glare.

“Oh yes,” said Aziraphale, watching Crowley with a wry smile. “_Most_ demanding. Crowley has very expensive tastes.”

Crowley hissed at him, but Anathemmawww broke into a radiant smile. “You actually call him Crowley?!” she squealed in delight.

Aziraphale hesitated. It had been a slip of the tongue, and he should probably have worked on a backstory for how he came to have a snake named for a fictional series he’d only just discovered, but he was saved from having to explain further by the arrival of another sleepy congoer making a dash for the food just as the staff were beginning to clear it away.

“It’s Wisesnail!” Aziraphale beamed. “Oh, do join us, my dear, these seats are empty…”

A pretty Italian lady with long, dark hair flopped into one of the empty chairs, blinked, and then seemed to wake up fully as she cried in her wonderful accent, “Crowley!”

Crowley allowed himself to be lifted over her neck and lavished with attention as she cooed over him and caressed his head, while Anathemmawww filled her in on the fact that “Crowley is his _actual name_,” which led to even more cooing.

“He is so beautiful and so friendly!” Wisesnail exclaimed. “You should have him on display in your bookshop!”

“Oh! Yes!” Anathemmawww agreed.

It gave Aziraphale a warm, glowing feeling to think of Crowley living in the bookshop (and tried not to think _too_ hard about what they might get up to with Crowley in either form…) He made a mental note to broach the subject with Crowley, under the heading “What Next?”, where questions such as, a holiday in the South Downs, a celebratory dinner at the (actual, this time) Ritz and Crowley’s unhealthy attachment to speeding in the Bentley were filed. 

“People would come to the shop just to see him,” said Anathemmawww.

Well, that sounded like a terrible idea, but then Wisesnail added, “Only Good Omens fans. Normal people would run away…”

“Hmm…” Aziraphale gave Crowley a considering glance. He actually rather liked that idea… not least if it brought him compliments and dissuaded purchasing...

“Oh!” Anathemmawww waved her hands in excitement, “You should host meet-ups! We could read fic out loud in the bookshop…”

“And cuddle Crowley,” Wisesnail added, demonstrating.

“Oh, that does sound delightful,” said Aziraphale. “What do you think, my dear?”

Crowley looked up at him. His expression was unreadable in this form, but the way he preened under the attention suggested he might not be averse to this idea.

“Aww,” said Anathemmawww. “He knows you’re talking to him!”

Crowley was being a little obvious. They probably should have had a discussion about acting a bit more snake-like in public. Still, one thing Aziraphale had learned this weekend was that leaning into the character was a surefire way to deflect questions.

“Well, my dear,” he said, “that’s because he’s not really a snake, just a demon in snake form.”

It got the desired result: shrieks of delight and peals of laughter from around the breakfast table.

To forestall any further snake-related enquiries, Aziraphale reached into his pocket and drew out a piece of paper. “I finished my drawing!” he announced proudly, pushing the paper towards Wisesnail. “Your workshop yesterday was _wonderful_.”

“Oh, this is so good!” she said, encouragingly. “Just one little adjustment…” she took out a pen and made some strokes on the page. “Michael Sheen has an amazing nose…” Her eyes drifted away from the page and into space, dreamlike. 

Aziraphale hadn’t been trying to draw _Michael Sheen_, but now he too wasn’t paying attention, far too distracted by the way Crowley was peering intently at the drawing. As Wisesnail handed it back with a flourish, Crowley slithered across the table, up Aziraphale’s arm and around his neck. Aziraphale unconsciously reached up to stroke him while admiring his improved artwork (and noticing proudly that she had not corrected his Crowley at all; of course he knew _exactly_ what Crowley looked like). Realising that Crowley was still staring at it, Aziraphale tucked it hurriedly into his pocket.

Crowley had been conspicuously absent from the previous morning’s panels (_waiting for me_, Aziraphale remembered with a little guilt), so he - fortunately - hadn’t seen Aziraphale’s earlier, somewhat less safe-for-work efforts, but this one was embarrassing enough. It was a rendition of himself making what the Internet would call _heart-eyes_ at Crowley in the Globe. He’d been particularly struck by that scene during the screening on Friday evening; the radiant look on the actor’s face brought back vivid memories of those early centuries of realising Crowley would perform miracles _just to make him happy_. Now here they were, embarking on whatever this was, with a veritable army of fans who thought they _belonged_ together...

Aziraphale was shaken from his reverie, then, when the call went up to attend the Alpha Centauri panel. Draining his cup and heading to the tea station for a top-up, Aziraphale’s eyes kept closing, not in tiredness, but in profuse affection (and, perhaps, something more lascivious) every time Crowley wound around his neck and slithered _right there_ across his hairline. At this rate, he would need to discuss Ineffable Bureaucracy, rather than anything closer to home, if he were to avoid looking like a fool in the panel…

If Aziraphale was being honest with himself (and he prided himself in doing just that… now his 6,000 year denial had ended), his love and lust were intermingled with a good dose of trepidation.This panel was the one that he had been the most nervous about since Crowley and he were found to be in the same place at the same time, High Wycombe. The memory of the recent… carnal pleasure, whilst delightful, of course, did nothing to alleviate this particular brand of nerves, which were less to do with the prospect of his Effort becoming apparent if Crowley didn’t cease his infernal winding and more to do with, well, Alpha Centauri.

For a moment, Aziraphale was lost in a far less pleasant daydream than those that had gone before. It seemed like both an age, yet only yesterday, that he had seen the Bentley screech to a halt outside his bookshop, a shout of “Angel!” making his stomach clench as Crowley practically fell out of his car. “Ridiculous”. That was the word that he had chosen. “Ridiculous”. In response to Crowley’s heartfelt “We can run away together, Alpha Centauri”, he had chosen... “Ridiculous”. Even though, intellectually, Aziraphale knew that this conversation shouldn’t now be important - they had the rest of their lives in which he could apologise every day if he needed to - the stab of pain in his chest remained. “Ridiculous”. 

However (Aziraphale’s brow creased at the memory), Crowley _had_ then called him “stupid”... he had forgiven him on the spot, of course - but that didn’t mean that he had forgotten. He couldn’t hear a tyre screech without his heart becoming heavy at the thought of Crowley’s hasty departure (luckily, tyre screeching wasn’t a regular occurrence in Central London, he had to admit). Nor had he forgotten the fact Crowley had said that he wouldn’t even think about him when he was up in the stars. Was he only thinking about him now because he was, somehow, stuck here? 

With thoughts spiraling, Aziraphale decided he needed to have his say, say his piece, clear the air, or whatever damned turn of phrase would make the next panel more palatable and release the strangled feeling in his chest. How much time had been wasted because of that exchange? Did Crowley harbour any resentment? Whilst _he_ had no doubt that the stranger’s sentiment of “You’re better off without him” was resoundingly untrue… did Crowley share his conviction? 

Clearing his throat, Aziraphale turned his attention to the snake about his shoulders. “Crowley, dearest, might I have a quick word, before we head upstairs-” Crowley’s head turned, gaze fixed on Aziraphale, almost predatory in its intensity. “-For the next panel?” he added, hastily. With head now downturned and an expression that added weight to the fact that snakes do, indeed, have the ability to pout, Crowley gave a nod. Waving to his table and walking through to the lounge, now almost deserted as con-goers moved to the panel, Aziraphale settled on the leather sofa, Crowley in his lap. 

“Well, dearest, it’s the Alpha Centauri panel now, I don’t know whether you knew?” Aziraphale gave no pause for Crowley to answer. “The thing is, I can’t stop thinking about the last time we discussed Alpha Centauri, if one can call it ‘a discussion’. You invited me to… err… run away with you, together, and I rather… I rather called it ‘ridiculous’” Aziraphale’s voice cracked. “I can’t help but feel that, even after last night… and this morning… we need to, well, clear the air!” Aziraphale punctuated his final statement with a (not-completely-un-Gabriel-like) clenched fist. He was deeply uncomfortable - mostly about the topic, but not in small part at being late to the panel - and it was showing. 

His discomfort increased a thousand-fold when Crowley, without so much as a glance in his direction, slid to the floor and out of the lounge doors. 

Aziraphale’s mind went blank, refusing to process what might have just occurred. His breath, still deeply unnecessary, came in shallow gasps, and his body was rooted to the spot, lead-like. Every thought that tried to enter his mind was short-circuited, stopped by some primordial protection. _Where… What… Why… Crowley._

Unstoppable, his earlier thoughts of the Globe stormed unbidden into his mind. As if Amazon itself had some sort of demonic hold, the years, decades, centuries in which he had denied his feelings for Crowley - had _denied Crowley_ \- raced through his mind. In a cruel twist, he began to replay their conversation from 1862, immortalised in episode 3, suggesting that Crowley, too, could remember every detail of their argument. 

There, by the lake, with Crowley looking so dashing in his top hat (_obviously_) was (one of, one of…) his prime opportunities to answer with something more than a slight. “We have a lot in common, you and I”... so Aziraphale brought up Crowley’s fall. Yes, he may have brushed it off, but another sentence left hanging, another opportunity missed. Rambling about having a penchant for pears, when Crowley was considering his own discorporation? _I would have left me, too_, thought Aziraphale, sadly. _How would I feel, if I were Crowley right now? Rebuked conversations collated for people’s viewing pleasure, the knoweldge I was here to meet another, and… suboptimal sex._

Aziraphale’s shoulders slumped, his eyes filling with tears. Whist everyone here was truly lovely, he couldn’t share this with them; he needed his best friend...

“Crowley!” As if a current had been passed through his body channelled directly from the Almighty herself, Aziraphale leapt to his feet, eyes wild, arms outstretched, as Crowley walked back into the lounge.

“Alright, angel?” Crowley asked, with a concerned furrow in his brow. Head cocked to one side, slouch to match, Aziraphale nearly bowled him over as he launched - nay, _pounced_ \- in his direction. 

“I thought! I! I…!” Aziraphale stammered, unable to think coherently over the thumping blood in his ears as his heart restarted with a jolt.

After a moment of looking confusedly between the door and Aziraphale, Crowley twigged. “Oh, for SOMEONE’S sake, Aziraphale! You thought I’d _left_?! After everything we have been through?! After _last night_?! And _this morning_?!” Crowley puffed out his cheeks, exhaling exuberantly. “You really are a prize pillock.”

From his pocket, Crowley, somewhat sheepishly, retrieved a carnation and a gold foil wrapped chocolate. “I wanted to bring you flowers and chocolates, but, without a miracle, this is the best I could do, and I wanted to be… genuine,” he said, bashfully. The chocolate was one of the marzipan chunks, kindly brought by some of the German party, not that Aziraphale would eat this particular one; no, he would keep it forever and a day. The carnation, however… “...shouldn’t really just pick the flowers, angel, I know, hope it doesn’t get the organisers into any trouble, but the carnation? Well, supposedly - and you’ll be much more _into_ this than I am - grew from Mary’s tears as she saw Jesus carrying the cross in Golgotha. Golgotha, see?” Crowley jostled Aziraphale, clearly seeking praise. “I haven’t stopped thinking about the times that our paths have crossed, angel, but they are not missed opportunities - “ Aziraphale made a strangled sound, turning his head away from Crowley’s gaze. Crowley caught his hand, as he continued, “They are _not_ missed opportunities, but chances for us to reminisce. The dances we danced around our feelings, the temptations we didn’t accomplish, the…” Crowley sighed, contentedly. “We will have _years_ of material, angel. We are comedy _gold_. Someone, they might even want a second series!

Aziraphale felt himself being gathered up into Crowley’s arms, tension seeping away and leaving him with only a sense of having been… ridiculous. With a blush creeping into his cheeks, Aziraphale returned the embrace, steadying his gasping breath and quieting his pounding heart. He knew that this would not be the first time that he would feel like this; he also knew it would not be the only time that Crowley would come back. 

“_The fairest flowers o’ th’ season are our carnations and streaked gillyvors, which some call nature’s bastards_,” Aziraphale shook his head, narrowing his eyes at Crowley’s raised eyebrow. “Yes, Crowley, more Shakespeare. You, like the carnation, are, after all, just enough of a bastard to be worth liking.” 

Crowley swept Aziraphale off his feet into a deep kiss, ceased only because Aziraphale’s legs began to tremble from both the pose and the intention. 

“Well, dearest,” Aziraphale said, sheepishly. “I think it would be rude to leave for the real thing, but would you accompany me - together - to the Alpha Centauri panel?”

Crowley snorted. “I’ll go anywhere with you, angel… it’s not _me_ that said ‘no’,” he mocked, gently, as they climbed the stairs, hand in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone wanting to check out Wisesnail's rendition of Michael Sheen's nose (and it's worth checking out), visit: [ Wisesnail's portfolio on Redbubble](https://www.redbubble.com/people/Wisesnail/portfolio)


	11. The Pillow Principality?

They reached the Alpha Centauri panel, as Aziraphale had feared, late. Unable to enter the room quietly, on account of the squeaking door, everyone’s head turned as they arrived. Seemingly the entire convention had come to attend this panel - some were so keen to hear about their potential ‘safehouse’ that they had come in their pyjamas! 

The presenter was one of the convention co-chairs (formerly War, now an alarming Crowley; it was awfully difficult to keep track of people at this event!). She glared as they entered the room.

“You’d think carrying a pocket watch would make you better at timekeeping,” War-Crowley snapped at them.

_Ah, well, that explains why she’s so cosy with the Gabriel from the registration desk, two of a kind…_ Aziraphale mouthed his apologies and took a seat, with Crowley, at the back of the room. Tentatively, he reached for Crowley’s hand under the table and felt a little thrill when Crowley’s fingers entwined with his.

“Now that _everyone’s_ here,” War-Crowley glared in their direction, “we’re going to talk about running away to Alpha Centauri…”

As she talked, Aziraphale looked around the room. Materially, nothing had changed since yesterday; there were still lots of happy (and tired) people, and too many biscuits. Yet, it seemed to Aziraphale as if everything had changed. Settling into his chair, Aziraphale had time to consider the events of the past 24 hours…

...or so he thought. Crowley, to his right, was jostling him again, drawing his attention to the screen as War-Crowley said, “...four light years away, so, travelling at ten percent of the speed of light, it would take about forty years to reach Alpha Centauri.”

_Ten percent of the speed of light?!_ thought Aziraphale. _He is going to get exceptionally touchy if I tell him that that might be too fast for me, but…_

Aziraphale shook his head and raised an eyebrow at Crowley. In return, Crowley leaned in and whispered, “See, angel? We could be there in a flash. Take a picnic. Watch the sunrise and the sunset. They happen - “

Crowley was cut short by a second glare from War-Crowley, before she continued; Aziraphale became lost in thought once again. Determined not to think about the... (_“they are not missed opportunities” Crowley had said_)... what might have been, Aziraphale began to make mental notes about the trips that they could go on, Alpha Centauri included. Since reading the programme, he had been rather excited about visiting all of their old London stomping grounds together, although this idea had been firmly as friends. Never, not once, not at all, in fact, had Aziraphale ever considered he might _finally_ kiss away the tiny smudge of red that Crowley always seemed to leave in the corner of his mouth when they bought ice lollies. It had never even crossed his _mind_ that he could tilt his head _just_ so on the top deck of the number 19 bus so that Crowley could, from his vantage point of the seat behind, kiss his neck as he read the _Ethereal Times_ (he pulled a face in remembrance of the quiz’s insistence on the _Celestial Observer_…)

Now - tomorrow, in fact! - this trip would become a reality, thanks to the post-convention London tour (and, weather be damned, he _would_ be buying Crowley an ice lolly and _would_ be making sure his face was in tip-top cleanliness before they continued the route…). Alpha Centauri might have to wait for a while, not least as Aziraphale was keen to ensure they timed their trip to take in the simultaneous setting and rising of the two main stars that War-Crowley was currently describing. Actual Crowley might have been about to share this fact with him earlier, perhaps assuming that he knew nothing of the star system, but, in fact, he had done his research (well, he had read a fic about it...). Certainly, hearing about the dual sunrise and sunset, and the length of the days before the night sky made its return for their viewing pleasure, did nothing to convince Aziraphale he had made the right decision to refuse Crowley’s invitation, then or now.

But then, saving the world together _had_ worked out rather well for them. The world really was quite splendid, after all, especially now that he was allowed to hold Crowley’s hand and rest his head on Crowley’s shoulder and… Crowley. To think of all the time they had wasted not doing this...

No matter! Aziraphale shook off the thoughts, grasping Crowley’s hand a little tighter. They had the rest of time to visit anywhere and everywhere. Aziraphale would even pack a picnic… his eyes returned to the screen, but his head remained full of plans: scotch eggs, sausage rolls, tea from a Thermos... 

********

The talk ended with an image of the Bentley flying through space, and, amidst the whoops and cheers that greeted its appearance, Aziraphale could feel Crowley positively vibrating with excitement. It occurred to Aziraphale only then that this crowd would be _delighted_ to know that that very Bentley was parked right outside at this very moment…

Naturally, Crowley had parked it somewhere out of the way of prying eyes and grasping hands (Aziraphale winced at the memory of the awkward non-journey to a secluded parking space after their… non-coitus in the back). A miracle ensured that it could have been hidden in plain sight, but, “belt and braces, angel. You can’t be too careful. I don’t want anyone… licking it or anything,” Crowley had remarked.

War-Crowley was occupied taking questions, most of which came from a very excitable former-demon-nun-guitarist who was currently clad in pyjamas, bouncing off their chair, arm stretched up, as they said, “Ooh! One more question! Sorry…” over and over again. Careful to keep his voice low, just in case her wrath once again turned in their direction (he had heard of people having to sleep in the car park…) Aziraphale turned to Crowley and murmured, “Can you imagine how happy everyone would be to see the Bentley?”

“Hmm,” Crowley grimaced, apparently interpreting this as a bad thing. “Not sure how I’m going to hide it for the drive to Tadfield this evening… We could skip the outing, have a night in?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Oh, but I ordered the sticky toffee pudding,” Aziraphale pouted.

Crowley snorted with laughter, causing War-Crowley’s head to whip round and her eyes to flash in rage. She called over to them, “Is that a question back there?”

“No,” Crowley sighed. Then, “Actually, yeah… you said there’s no evidence for a habitable planet around Alpha Centauri, but there is.”

“Is there now?” scoffed War-Crowley. “Do you have a citation for that?”

“Well, yeah... me. I was there. I built it.”

“Of course you did, Crowley. My apologies.” War-Crowley gave an indulgent, if, perhaps, slightly weary smile, and there were a few scattered laughs around the room (“Take us with you!” someone called).

The pyjama-clad-former-demon-nun-guitarist had another question, so Aziraphale took advantage of War-Crowley’s distraction to turn back to Actual Crowley. “You shouldn’t toy with the humans like that,” he said, under his breath.

“Why not?” Crowley peered over his sunglasses. “You do.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. Then, to deflect, he suggested, “You should drive some of our new friends to Tadfield.”

Crowley recoiled in horror. “No. Absolutely not. Don’t you remember what happened the last time you talked me into giving a human a lift?”

“As I recall, I acquired a long-sought-after book.”

“Anyway, who would I take? You seem to be friends with everyone here.”

“Not everyone,” said Aziraphale darkly, narrowing his eyes in Gabriel’s direction.

Crowley followed his gaze. “Not to worry, angel. I think she’s spoken for.” He looked as though he were about to make some cutting comment, but hesitated. His attention had been caught by someone on the other side of the room, but, with those confounded glasses on, Aziraphale couldn’t quite work out who…The look on his face, however, was well-known, if not well-loved; Crowley was getting _an idea_. Oh Heavens...

There was no time to question him, however, as a tea break had just been announced before the auction. Crowley leapt out of his seat and bounded to the front of the room to speak with the co-chairs. _And_ he _thought Paris for crepes during the French Revolution was a bad idea… not as bad as keeping War-Crowley from her tea with tales of Alpha Centauri_, Aziraphale mused.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the pyjama-clad-former-demon-nun-guitarist heading out to the tea station, and he stood to get their attention.

“Oh, my dear,” he waved. “I just wanted to let you know that I found your contributions to the convention zine _most_ enjoyable!”

“You’ve already read the zine?!”

“Of course!” Aziraphale gushed. “Cover to cover! _Four_ entries from you! The lift scenarios were quite marvellous. Scenario Three was my favourite, of course; I do so enjoy it when Aziraphale takes the lead.”

They gave him a little smirk. “Yeah, I got that from how you write him.. Uh, thanks.” They started edging towards the door. “Sorry, but I really need a smoke break....”

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale moved out of their way and watched their retreat, lost in thought. He _did_ tend to write himself taking the lead in amorous encounters; now he knew that was _very_ different to the way he was in reality. Why, this morning, he had been quite, dare he say it, the pillow principality!

He was still cringing at the memory when Crowley appeared in front of him, thrusting a mug of tea into his hands.

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “Thank you…” He took a sip and winced - _far_ too much milk - but it was the thought that counted.

As they took their seats, War-Crowley called them all to attention, looking uncharacteristically delighted as she said, “Before we begin, we have an announcement…”

Beside him, Crowley was radiating excitement, and Aziraphale suddenly realised what this announcement was likely to entail. He reached under the table and squeezed Crowley’s hand while War-Crowley explained to the assembled that, not only did one of the attendees have a Bentley that was black, and was from the right year (“Super fan,” Crowley shrugged), he was willing to allow _pictures_ (cue squealing) and _rides_ to Tadfield for two lucky raffle winners (cue outright disorder - the “but not touching” was almost certainly lost in the melee).

“You have five minutes for last-minute raffle ticket purchases,” War-Crowley concluded.

Raffle tickets sold by the fistful, as congoers chattered excitedly about the newest opportunity presented to them. Aziraphale (who had been in the Bentley many a time, _obviously_, but bought a clutch of additional raffle tickets to show willing) surveyed the scene contentedly.

“That was very -”

“Don’t you dare,” Crowley interrupted him.

“Well, it _was_. And it’s bound to raise some extra money for the convention charity.”

Crowley shrugged. “Human brains are fragile enough as it is. They don’t need to be getting Alzheimer’s.”

Aziraphale leaned over and placed a firm kiss on Crowley’s cheek. He grumbled in response, but Aziraphale could see a definite blush spreading over his pale skin.

As quick as it erupted, the purchasing flurry stopped. People were bolt upright in their seats, eyes glued to the front of the room, tickets clasped in now-sweaty palms.

With the art show first, Crowley had to contain his excitement for a few more minutes, causing him to oscillate in the adjacent chair. Aziraphale wished he could calm down, not least as there was a particular auction piece he was more than a _little_ interested in owning, and he didn’t want to miss his chance.

Naturally, as an angel, Aziraphale had a penchant for neoclassicism. Beautiful, dramatic, but full of morals and virtues; everything an angel should revere. It was a surprise to himself, then, when Aziraphale was thoroughly, wholeheartedly and unabashedly consumed by the need to purchase a piece of what could only be called pornography. A far cry from anything neoclassical, or, indeed, Wisesnail’s beautiful winged Crowley that had caused him to shed a tear earlier in the convention, this was… he fanned himself at the thought. He had never imagined that he would be able to bid at all, never mind with Crowley in the room. But now? After… everything? If he wanted to own a piece of explicit art, then, maybe, he would. Emboldened by the change of events the past day had brought, Aziraphale readied himself.

The auction was being hosted by a fluffy-haired duplicate of… himself, wearing his magician outfit. The effect was a little disconcerting, but it did bring back some fond memories. As bidding commenced on the first few items, Aziraphale pondered how long it had been since he’d performed a magic show; perhaps Crowley might stop pretending not to enjoy it now that they were on their own side…

Aziraphale’s excited plotting was interrupted as the auctioneer announced, “An NSFW warning now, gentlepeeps, as we auction…”

The co-chairs collectively turned around an overtly large painting of, well, not to put too fine a point on it, Aziraphale himself and a snake-shaped Crowley _in flagrante_. Aziraphale blushed. And raised his hand. “One hundred pounds, please!”, he managed. 

A strangled “Ngk!” came from his side. “Angel! _What are you doing?!_” Crowley growled.

“I think they have captured our likenesses rather well, dearest!” said Aziraphale, brightly. “I have _just_ the spot in the bookshop; I shall be able to see it from my favourite reading chair.” His wink caused his table to snigger and pay attention, presumably either confirming being ‘in character’ was the best way to ride out an awkward situation or that he was about to have competition to secure his painting…

“But! This morning! You!” Crowley was lost, bright red and sputtering. 

Calmly, Aziraphale checked the bidding with the fluffy-haired and many-costumed auctioneer. War-Crowley had outbid him, and was aiming a menacing glare in his direction.

“In that case, one hundred and twenty, my dear,'' he said, upping his bid with a beaming smile.

“One-forty,” said War-Crowley.

Aziraphale vaguely remembered someone on the first evening telling him one of the convention co-chairs was fond of… serpentine material. _Presumably this is the one_, he thought. He wasn’t about to be outbid on a picture of _himself_, though....

“One-fifty,” said Aziraphale.

“Two hundred.”

Some _oohs_ went up around the room. Aziraphale sighed. He could miracle himself the win, of course, but that would deprive both the artist and the convention charity… “Two-fifty.”

War-Crowley’s eyebrows shot up, and she shrugged.

The auctioneer glanced between them. “Going once, going twice...sold! To the person who looks… remarkably like they’re _in_ the painting!” the auctioneer quipped.

“Oh, how _wonderful_,” Aziraphale said with an excited wriggle. Beside him, Crowley groaned and seemed to be trying to vanish under the table.

The rest of the auction passed by quickly, Aziraphale still revelling in his win. A painting… a Crowley. The kindest demon he had ever met, if today’s actions were anything to go by (Aziraphale shook his head; he had six thousand years of memories of Crowley being decidedly more demonic, but, today, he was feeling soft). 

As the auction concluded and War-Crowley stepped up to officiate the raffle, the entire room sat up to take notice. Each winning ticket draw was greeted by an excited squeal and round of applause.

It occurred to Aziraphale that their arrangement - their _relationship_ \- made a lot of people very happy, if the themed jigsaw puzzles, socks, cookie cutters and more were anything to go by. People were holding their wins close, before sharing them with their table, and taking photographs. Just as he was trying to recall a time in his 6,000 years where he had seen anything quite like it, one of his table tapped him on the shoulder, gesturing at his tickets.

“White 56?”

Aziraphale had won! With a little wiggle of delight, he called out, “Here!” Beaming, he was presented with a copy of the script book, which, to his surprise (and horror: he hated stickers on books) bore a label: “Special edition at Waterstones featuring exclusive deleted scenes”. Well, not only would he get to read what everyone else had seen without having to put on the infernal television, he would get a “deleted scene”; how delightful! Satisfied that tonight would not be for fanfiction, but for his new (and, The Nice and Accurate Prophecies notwithstanding, now, potentially, his most treasured) book, he returned to the raffle.

“And now…” there was a dramatic pause from the front of the room. “It’s time to see who is lucky enough to win the two seats in the Bentley, for a chauffeur-driven trip to Tadfield this evening!” 

Whoops and cheers echoed around the room, before a pregnant silence took hold. War-Crowley took the overflowing cup of raffle tickets to Actual Crowley, and asked him to pick a number. The whole room - even Aziraphale - held their collective breath. 

“Orange 16?” Crowley read out, squinting over his sunglasses for effect. Applause erupted as Aziraphale’s fellow tea connoisseur secured the first of the coveted seats. Crowley could hardly contain himself. “Diminutive Crowley! Isn’t it your birthday?! How...ineffable!” He grinned. 

When another two tickets were drawn, both of which belonged to ‘Diminutive Crowley', Aziraphale began to suspect demonic play. Under his breath, he asked, “Miracle?” 

“Well, it’s their _birthday_,” Crowley hissed. “What was I _supposed_ to do?! Plus, they’ve been helping me make your tea all weekend - except that one,” he gestured to the overly-milky and now-cooling mug of tea in front of Aziraphale.

“A less potent miracle, perhaps?” Aziraphale remarked, choosing to ignore the tea discussion in its entirety. “What will you do if the fourth, fifth, sixth…”

“All right, all right,” said Crowley, narrowing his eyes. “I get the picture. You see a nice thing, Aziraphale, you thwart it.” Crowley gave him a glare. “I try and do…”

Crowley tailed off, as Aziraphale put his hand on his thigh, gripping just a little. Whispering in Crowley’s ear, he said, “Wait until lunchtime, demon, and I’ll show you exactly how _nice_ I think you are…”

_Miraculously_, the fourth raffle ticket belonged to someone other than Diminutive Tea Connoisseur Crowley… in fact, a rather splendid Beelzebub. _Fancy that_, thought Aziraphale, wryly. And, oh look, it was time for lunch; Aziraphale gave another of his trademark wiggles. Normally thinking of his stomach, today, Aziraphale was thinking about a lunchtime need much more deep - and the aforementioned _nice_ demon to fulfil it. 

“What are you looking so pleased about, angel?” Crowley asked.

Taking Crowley by the wrist, perhaps a _little_ more firmly than was strictly polite, Aziraphale was at the front of the crowd heading out through the doors. Crowley trailed behind him, being pulled by Aziraphale’s determined stride, dawdling, no doubt, to hear more praise for the Bentley.

“Lunch is that -” 

Crowley’s directions were cut short by Aziraphale pushing him up against the wall, the same wall that, yesterday, had caused so much confusion. This time, only pleasure reigned; not even mild embarrassment got a look in as people passed them and cat called on their way to lunch. 

Their kisses, this time, were more languid, perhaps a reflection of the fact they now knew they had all the time in the world… perhaps a reflection that they hadn’t yet truly got started. Aziraphale’s hand reached behind Crowley’s neck, pulling him closer, his other hand entwined with Crowley’s at their side. He removed his hand, sliding it up Crowley’s arm to caress his face. Crowley returned his embrace with a sigh, leaning into Aziraphale’s hand and taking his bottom lip between his own, sensuously.

From behind him, Aziraphale heard a muttered, “Get a room,” from what sounded like Registration Gabriel.

Pausing for breath, panting ever so slightly, Aziraphale remarked, “Actually, I do think that their ideas have merit. We _should_ get a room…”

With that, his grip on Crowley’s wrist was resumed, making their way through the labyrinthine corridors. Aziraphale was nothing if not determined; this time, he _would_ be _firmly_ in the lead.

Reaching Crowley’s door, Aziraphale met his nerves head on, taking a moment to nuzzle at Crowley’s neck as he fumbled with his door key. The fact that this caused them to practically fall through the door was no matter; they were going to end up on the bed anyway (there was hardly the room for anything more adventurous), so best to get started!

As much as Aziraphale was enjoying the kissing, he reminded himself that speed was, truly, of the essence; he didn’t want to miss lunch, after all. In actuality, he hoped that speed would mask any inadequacies in his performance. He was keen to reciprocate Crowley’s earlier efforts (and Effort), but, despite his experience in fics, he was rather inexperienced in reality. Still! Pushing all thoughts except Crowley (well, parts of Crowley, certainly…) from his mind, he broke away.

“Dearest, we are ‘on the clock’, as it were. The food here isn’t the best, as you know, and it certainly won’t get any better for sitting on a hot plate! In any case, you have the Bentley to prepare for this afternoon… you don’t want anyone out there without you, do you? Heavens, someone might - “

This was enough for Crowley to start shedding his clothes like Armageddon was, once again, upon them. Watching him, _appraising him_, Aziraphale began to kiss any part of Crowley’s naked body that become visible as the layers were discarded.

“I said - “ (kiss) “... that I would show you - “ (kiss) “...exactly how nice - “ (kiss) “... I think you are…” Aziraphale mumbled against Crowley’s skin. 

“‘m not,” retorted Crowley, now naked and scrabbling to get under the covers.

From his vantage point astride his thighs, Aziraphale grabbed both of Crowley’s hands and raised them above Crowley’s head, taking the opportunity to give him a long, deep kiss.

“We’ll have none of that, my dear. I would like to see you, to take you in - so to speak…”

Aziraphale’s innuendo, combined with his raised eyebrow, were clearly doing things to Crowley; his cock was hard and leaking, even though it had yet to be touched, and he groaned.

“Aaah- aren’t you going to take your clothes off, angel?” Crowley managed, squirming, trying to make contact.

“No dearest, this lunchtime exists solely for me to make a meal of the nicest demon I know,” Aziraphale winked.

Crowley broke free of Aziraphale’s grasp, pulling him down into a kiss that allowed Crowley to shift and find something, anything, to rub against.

“Now, now, dearest,” Aziraphale chided. “I need these trousers to be in tip-top condition for the Bentley photos!”

“Miracles exist, angel...” Crowley growled. 

Aziraphale had to admit that the hardness of Crowley against his own was an exquisite feeling, even through two layers. The urge to use one of the aforementioned miracles to be naked alongside his demon was almost overwhelming; but no. This was about Crowley, and Crowley alone. Crowley, who had come back. Crowley, who had brought him a chocolate and a flower. Crowley, who had asked him to run away to Alpha Centauri…

The memory (of… he now had _they are not missed opportunities_ playing on a loop in his brain) caused Aziraphale to redouble his efforts. He maneuvered himself from Crowley’s lap, causing a whimper of disappointment from the reclining demon. Dragging Crowley closer to the edge of the bed, causing a new sound entirely, Aziraphale sank to his knees, pushed Crowley’s legs up and boldly, uncharacteristically, but necessarily assailed his arsehole vigorously with his tongue. He barely spared a thought, on this occasion, for his aforementioned knees; he didn’t intend to be down here for long, not least if the cacophony Crowley was causing was anything to go by.

Crowley’s hands grasped, trying, but failing, to pull Aziraphale back onto the bed. Aziraphale would not be moved until he had milked Crowley of every last drop he was willing to provide; no good deed should go unrecognised, after all…

Licking upwards, gently, firmly, alternating for no other reason than Crowley’s increasingly loud groans gave him the confidence boost that he needed, Aziraphale took Crowley’s balls into his mouth and _sucked_. The resulting cry was magnificent, but Aziraphale, still _very_ much in control, stopped immediately when Crowley reached for his own swollen cock.

“Am I not enough for you, dear?” Aziraphale asked, through a pout, punctuating his sentence with an unyielding lick of Crowley’s length.

“Ahh - angel - fuck! I thought you said this would be quick! I mean - I’m… READY!” Crowley practically shouted.

“Well, in that case…”

Aziraphale took Crowley in hand, swift strokes interspersed with deep sucks. Aziraphale’s own cock was crying out for attention, straining against his waistband, but he pushed thoughts of his own release to the back of his mind. To help his focus, Aziraphale sprinked compliments when his mouth was not otherwise occupied, reminding Crowley of all of the times he had saved him in as much detail as the current situation allowed. 

It was as Aziraphale was recounting their night with the Nazis that Crowley came, with a gutteral sound that truly belonged to a demon of Hell. Aziraphale had only been remarking (in between pulls and sucks and licks) that, seeing Crowley hotfoot it to his rescue had caused an erection of epic proportions, that he would have liked to have bent him over the font, right there and then, audience - and weaponry - be damned, _dangerously_ close to the holy water…

Seeing Crowley lying back with a smile across his face, eyes closed, Aziraphale was reminded of the angel Crowley once was. He gave a little wiggle, absurdly proud of his attempts, which disturbed Crowley from his thoughts.

“You OK, angel? I’m… well, not sure I can repay the favour right now, I’m rather, well, exhausted,” Crowley sighed, with dopey grin across his face.

“I wouldn’t want you to,” Aziraphale said. “Right now,” he added, with a wink. “That was just for you, and there will be many more where that came from, if they take your fancy…”

“My fancy?” Crowley drawled. “I expect you to be taking my fancy everywhere, angel… the bookshop, the Bentley - “

In a comedic double take, both Crowley and Aziraphale intoned, “THE BENTLEY!” Swiftly on their feet, a miracle reclothing Crowley and smoothing out a ruffled Aziraphale, they paused only for the briefest of kisses as they fled from the room, out into the sunshine of Lane End’s car park.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Ineffable Con was pleased to raise £1258.93 for Alzheimer's Research UK. If you would like to make a donation, [please do!](https://www.alzheimersresearchuk.org/support-us/donate/)
> 
> For those of you wanting to enjoy Aziraphale taking the lead in the zine fic he was reading, check out [The Lift Scenario Three by maddiemaynot](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/The_Ineffable_Con_Zine/works/21160937)


	12. The Exhibitionists

While Crowley dashed out to the car park to check on the Bentley, Aziraphale made his way to the dining room. It was the final lunch he would be taking in this room, and, while he wouldn’t miss the food per se, it made him sad to think of returning to the real world after this surreal, wonderful, incomparable weekend.

“Crepes!” someone called from across the room, pushing thoughts of what would happen next from Aziraphale’s mind. 

Aziraphale looked up and saw a group of his new friends: Wisesnail and Anathemmawww, a Beelzebub he didn’t recognise, and… oh, Registration Gabriel. Well, one couldn’t have everything. He smiled and joined them anyway, greeting them with, “What’s for lunch?”

“Fish and chips,” said Beelzebub. They made a face at their plate and added, “Sort of.”

When they spoke, Aziraphale recognised them as the no-longer-pyjama-clad-former-demon-nun-guitarist. “Excellent fly, my dear,” he remarked, with a nod towards their elaborate headpiece.

By the time Aziraphale returned to the table with a plate of mediocre fish and chips, the only available seat was across from Gabriel.  _ Oh dear _ … In front of Gabriel sat a heavy, battered book. Curious, Aziraphale looked at the spine: it was Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management. It took him a moment to realise why that title was familiar; the incident itself had taken place some time ago, but he had seen it mentioned in many a fic. With a mock disapproving look, he said, “Pornography at the dinner table? Really…”

That almost -  _ almost  _ \- elicited a smile from Gabriel. Aziraphale decided to count it as a win.

“Where’s Crowley?” Wisesnail called from a few seats down.

“Just went out to the car,” said Aziraphale, brightly.

Several faces turned to him with expressions ranging from confusion to alarm. “You left a snake alone in the car park?” Anathemmawww exclaimed.

“Ah… well, yes. That is, no… uh…” Aziraphale fiddled awkwardly with the chain of his pocket watch. “I’m sorry, I thought you were referring to my, ah, friend, who was  _ dressed _ as Crowley. He went to check on his car, and he’s… taking care of the snake.”

“Can we cuddle him later?” Wisesnail pleaded with eyes wide.

“I shall have to ask him,” Aziraphale said. “Touchy demon, you know…”

“Can’t believe I missed the snake at breakfast,” Beelzebub grumbled.

“A snake?” Resuming her registration demeanour, Gabriel turned her icy glare onto Aziraphale. “At breakfast? In clear violation of the conference centre’s terms and conditions?”

“Oh, goodness…” Aziraphale stared down at his plate. It hadn’t even  _ occurred _ to him…

“Not an actual snake,” Anathemmawww interjected. “It was just a demon in snake form!”

Gabriel glared, unsure whether there was a live snake, a practical joke, or, clearly the worst option, she was being made fun of. “I’ll let it go for now,” she said. Aziraphale remained wholeheartedly unsure whether she was in character, or would truly report him for breaking the rules about animals on the premises.

Before long, his companions were being whisked away for photographs. Aziraphale was dragged in for pictures with Gabriel (he didn’t need to fake the look of discomfort there) and was just searching for an excuse to extricate himself when he was pulled over to pose with Crowley. Much more comfortable now, he wrapped his arm around Crowley’s shoulders and turned to beam at the camera.

A whole array of cameras and phones appeared, clicking and flashing in their faces. Aziraphale looked at each one in turn, smiling and leaning his head on Crowley’s shoulder. He only realised something was wrong when he looked towards one phone and realised the person taking the picture was… “ _ Crowley _ ?!”

Crowley lowered his phone and raised his eyebrow.

Aziraphale hurriedly dropped his arm from the Crowley at his side, immediately realising his mistake. She was a quite stunning facsimile of Crowley, but with longer, curlier hair, as Crowley had worn some years ago.

“Apologies, my dear…” he squinted at her badge, “Kai. I thought you were…” he gestured towards Crowley.

“Oh, he’s a good Crowley too!” said Kai. “Let’s do Aziraphale with 2008 and 2019 Crowleys!”

Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but Crowley evidently did, as he came to stand on Aziraphale’s other side, still smirking in Aziraphale’s direction. Aziraphale posed with an arm around each Crowley’s waist, making  _ sure _ he was holding more tightly to  _ his _ Crowley, and the photographs taken that afternoon recorded the widest grin ever seen on an angel’s face.

********

There was just one panel that afternoon before the closing ceremony, a behind the scenes talk with one of the crew from the television show. Aziraphale had only seen a small portion of the show, but he could hardly pass up the opportunity to be flanked by two Crowleys.

As soon as he walked into the room, he spotted his raffle prize script book and made a beeline for it. “Oh, I must have forgotten this! I got a little distracted earlier…”

Crowley had a small coughing fit as they took their seats. At the front of the room, War-Crowley was berating Registration Gabriel (“Did you just tell those people they had time to get tea before the two o’clock panel? It’s  _ two-oh-one _ !”) which gave Aziraphale just a  _ little  _ unangelic enjoyment.

A perfectly-made cup of steaming tea appeared in front of him; Aziraphale looked up to see his benefactor was Diminutive Crowley.

“Oh, thank you, my dear,” said Aziraphale.

“You are most welcome,” said Diminutive Crowley, taking a seat at their table. “I am  _ so excited _ about the Bentley!”

“Scratch it and I’ll scratch you,” Crowley growled.

Aziraphale leaned over to apologise for Crowley’s abrasiveness, but Diminutive Crowley was laughing delightedly.  _ A strange bunch, these demons… _

As the panel began, Aziraphale flipped open his script book. He had some idea of what the show contained, of course, based on the scenes that showed up in fanfiction, but the small part he’d seen on Friday night had not been at all what he expected. At some point, he would have to watch the rest ( _ with Crowley, perhaps… _ ) but, for now, he could read.

It was strange, to see his own words written down on the page. Words he’d said thousands of years ago (“ _ I gave it away _ ”), so clear in his head that he could picture the scene perfectly. It had been hot and dry that day - a far cry from the country he’d called home this last millennium or so - until he’d sheltered then-Crawley from the first rain…

Aziraphale was yanked from his vivid reverie by a hand gripping his thigh. Beside him, Crowley was trembling faintly. Aziraphale covered Crowley’s hand with his own and focused his attention on what was going on at the front of the room.

There was talk of burning and which books the crewmembers got to keep…  _ Oh _ . Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand. Oddly, Aziraphale didn’t have quite the same reaction to being reminded of his bookshop burning down, because he had only heard about it, never seen it. Crowley, however, was clearly upset by the reminder, which gave Aziraphale the perfect excuse to lean over and nuzzle gently against his shoulder. It was a mark of just  _ how  _ upset Crowley was that he didn’t even pretend to protest, just wrapped his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders and held him close.

On the other side of the table, Aziraphale could see Anathemmawww nudging Wisesnail and the formerly-pyjama-clad-demon-nun-guitarist-now-Beelzebub and glancing in their direction. He froze; what were they talking about?

Aziraphale’s attention was wrenched once again as Crowley’s hold on him tightened. He looked up and saw that a video was being played on the screen of the Bentley (not  _ the _ Bentley - clearly a stunt double) being blown up. Aziraphale set down his book and leaned up to place kisses along Crowley’s jaw. It seemed to have the desired distracting effect, because Crowley’s grip loosened and he turned his head to capture Aziraphale’s lips in a kiss. It started as a gentle brush of lips, but images of their earlier activities flashed through Aziraphale’s mind. He deepened the kiss, seeking Crowley’s tongue with his own and - 

Across the table someone audibly coughed. Aziraphale broke off the kiss. The fluffy-haired Aziraphale of Many Costumes shot them a pointed glance and cleared her throat. 

Blushing, Aziraphale returned to his book, but Crowley didn’t let go of him. Aziraphale rearranged them so that he was almost in Crowley’s lap, and continued reading about an amusing (meaning that he thoroughly disapproved of it, if anyone asked) episode involving rats. He would have to remember to ask Crowley if this part was true, although he could well imagine it as the sort of low-grade evil Crowley enjoyed. 

The parts of the story that Aziraphale remembered were, for the most part, Nice and Accurate. Astonishingly and quite disturbingly so, in fact. That was, until he got to a particularly disastrous eleventh birthday party…

Fishing a pencil out of the inside pocket of his coat, he began making notes, circling words like  _ fumble _ and the outrageous suggestions that the children at the party found his act anything other than delightful.

“Defacing a book, angel?” Crowley murmured beside him.

“I’m  _ editing _ ,” said Aziraphale, pointedly.

Crowley’s expression hovered around surprised before settling on amused. He took Aziraphale’s free hand, which felt strangely momentous, despite their earlier activities. Perhaps it was having just read about an earlier time when he wouldn’t have dared even call Crowley a friend, but being able to do this so openly now was quite thrilling. Aziraphale realised he was staring at Crowley, but couldn't bring himself to care; he decided he had probably spent rather more time that was  _ strictly _ polite reading in this panel, anyway, so what was another indiscretion?

All too soon, the panel ended and there was a bustle of activity as people darted to the tea station. Reluctantly, Aziraphale dropped Crowley’s hand and joined them; he might be enjoying their time together, but that was no call to be rude and he  _ did  _ owe Diminutive Crowley a cup of tea…

********

Having ensured their entire table was suitably refreshed, Aziraphale settled in for the closing ceremony, which seemed to have come around all too quickly. War-Crowley and her co-chair gave out gifts and showered praise on all who had helped, even Registration Gabriel. To his surprise, Aziraphale was presented with a convention mug for his short stint on the registration desk.

Next up were the competition prizes, and the most hotly anticipated news was that of the costume competition. Aziraphale clapped magnanimously when the Aziraphale of Many Costumes scooped the main prize (for “ _ every costume in the damn show _ ”, as War-Crowley said), but struggled to hold his composure when he and Crowley took  _ second _ place in the couples competition, losing to a Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis pairing. Unwilling to share that he,  _ he _ , was the  _ original  _ Brother Francis and  _ his  _ sideburns were certainly not  _ stuck on _ , Aziraphale smiled in a manner he hoped was beatific, rather than than barbarous.

The closing ceremony ended with a musical performed by fellow convention attendees, aided by additional performers on video. Aziraphale was fond of a bit of musical theatre (with certain exceptions) and the fact that there was more than one performer playing  _ him _ was something of a novelty. He had to magnanimously acknowledge that the prize-winning Brother Francis was especially excellent, and the way a petite Crowley hotfooted it down a church aisle during the Blitz scene certainly earned its raucous laughter. Throughout it all, though, the real Crowley was nervously checking his watch, sighing, and even audibly  _ tutting _ .

“What’s wrong?” Aziraphale whispered, when he couldn’t take the distraction any longer.

“They’ll all be heading out to take pictures with the car after this,” Crowley muttered. “I want it to be… you know, shiny.”

“Weren’t you getting it ready earlier?”

“Yes, but it’s autumn… leaves... “

Aziraphale sighed. He’d be sad to miss the rest of the musical, but when Crowley was like this… Oh, but then the fluffy-haired Aziraphale of Many Costumes strutted onto the stage to the opening chords of a song the real Aziraphale had particularly wanted to see... 

“After this song,” he whispered.

That seemed to settle Crowley down, and Aziraphale grinned delightedly at the parody of himself singing about having no more fucks to give as he abandoned Heaven. Her impression really was spot on; Aziraphale couldn’t have done it better himself, although he was determined to learn this particular song, if only to sing loudly when potential ‘customers’ came calling…

As the song ended, Crowley grasped his hand and together they slipped quietly out of the back door. Amid the rapturous applause, it was unlikely anyone had spotted them, but Aziraphale  _ had _ wanted to stay until the end… Not usually prone to petulancy, Aziraphale chose to dawdle on the way out to the Bentley, to prove a point. If he and Crowley were to be in a…  _ relationship  _ (the word still felt strange in his head, never mind how it would feel to say, “This is my Crowley” out loud), then Crowley would have to get used to the fact that the world didn’t revolve around him. Sometimes, Aziraphale would want to read a book. Or eat some sushi. Or have a foot massage. Or… it wasn’t that he didn’t want Crowley by his side for all of those things, but, really, the tutting was just  _ too much _ ! He made a mental note to address it when he wasn’t  _ quite  _ so overcome by Crowley’s wiles as he was, well,  _ right now _ .

Crowley stood polishing the Bentley, perfect arse jutting out just so. With an arse like that, Aziraphale was sure that he would do anything that Crowley asked, even if it meant never eating a crepe or buying a first edition again. Aziraphale was fairly confident that Crowley’s demands were less likely to be crepe-centric and more likely to be Crowley-centric, but, still a demon – better to be prepared! Aziraphale smirked at his own silliness.

Crowley suddenly paused in his polishing.

“What’s wrong?” Aziraphale called. Crowley turned, still practically prostrate over the bonnet, looking quizzical. Aziraphale took a mental picture, savouring the moment, pushing away the thoughts that, tomorrow, this would all end.

“The funniest thing, angel. It seems like, well, like the Bentley has been…  _ licked.”  _ Crowley spat the last word disdainfully. “I did see one of the Crowleys from the musical, the  _ petite _ one,  _ far too close  _ to it earlier _ ,  _ posing for a photo…” His voice tailed off into a grimace.

“Never mind, dear, nothing that a miracle can’t solve, I’m sure,” Aziraphale said, placating.

As he rubbed the cloths on the doors assuredly with more force that was strictly necessary, Crowley continued to grumble about this and that, barely audible to Aziraphale, although the mood was clear.

“Oh,  _ grumblecakes _ , dearest!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “Surely we are not going to let a smudge ruin an otherwise  _ wonderful _ day?” Aziraphale certainly did  _ not _ mention the state he thought the Bentley might be in after the con goers took their photos in a short while. He walked up behind Crowley, taking the cloth from him and placing it carefully on the roof, before pulling him into an embrace.

Crowley relented and turned to face him, head falling to Aziraphale’s shoulder and arms looping around his waist. They stood, for a moment, still, just basking in the closeness and easiness of the stance. Aziraphale raised a hand to caress the back of Crowley’s neck, feeling his reciprocal sigh against his face.  _ Well, this is just… tickety-boo!  _ thought Aziraphale.  _ I could stay like this all day.  _ He took a deep breath of Crowley’s cologne.  _ I wonder what he’s thinking? Of me, of this moment, of this morning… or, of the Bentley?  _ Aziraphale huffed, just a little.

“What’s so funny, angel?” Crowley asked, suspiciously.

“Nothing, nothing,” Aziraphale said, hurriedly. “I was just wondering whether you were thinking the same as me, that right now is – “

Aziraphale was cut off with a squeak as Crowley’s hand planted itself firmly between his legs.

“Were you thinking about this, too, angel? I’d say something about being ‘soft’, but I think it could be misconstrued in this  _ present moment. _ ” Crowley said the last two words in what was, presumably, his Aziraphale voice. Aziraphale tried to find the wherewithal to be irritated, tried to find the acerbic comment necessary to reply, but Crowley’s hand was still  _ right there _ .

Aziraphale shook his head, as if to forcibly clear all ill-timed thoughts. “I thought you had a Bentley to prepare,” he blustered.

“Still a demon,” Crowley practically purred, head back on Aziraphale’s shoulder, nibbling gently at his neck, hand still rooted to the spot, yet now, moving deliciously –  _ maddeningly _ – slowly. “There’s something about four and a half metres of black metal that makes me…”

Crowley pressed harder. Aziraphale gasped.

“Crowley! We don’t have  _ time _ ! Anyway,” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “No amount of metal, long, black or otherwise, seemed to help much last night…”

“For SOMEONE’S SAKE, Aziraphale! I’m  _ TRYING TO SEDUCE YOU HERE _ !” Crowley blurted.

Aziraphale took Crowley’s wrist and added his own pressure. It wouldn’t do to have Crowley  _ remove _ his hand, after all… This seemed to restore the mood, Crowley shifting, albeit with a slightly disgruntled look on his face, to press Aziraphale up against the back door of the Bentley.

“What about the – “

Aziraphale was cut off with Crowley’s tongue, furiously meeting his, all languidness lost. Breathless, Crowley replied, “Fuck the car, angel. Fuck the people. Not literally – although I see how you’ve been looking at that curly-haired Crowley…”

“I have NEVER – “ Aziraphale’s indignation was similarly met with a barrage of kisses. He had the distinct impression he was being toyed with. He had the distinct impression he was going to enjoy it.

Settling into the kiss, Aziraphale barely had a minute to think about being interrupted, or to wonder whether Crowley had used a miracle to avoid that situation, or to muse about exactly where this might go, given the time they had, before Crowley was grasping at his flies.

Aziraphale was torn. He wholeheartedly did not want Crowley to stop, not now, not in six thousand years’ time. However, his standards were  _ far  _ too high to be caught with his trousers around his ankles by the general public!

“ _ Crowley _ ,” Aziraphale hissed at the top of Crowley’s head (Crowley’s eyes were, presumably, resolutely fixed on the fly situation). Getting no answer, Aziraphale tried a gentle push.

“ _ Tsk _ ,” Crowley tutted. “Honestly, angel, anyone would think you’ve never had a quickie before…” Aziraphale’s blush seemed to tell Crowley all he needed to know. “Well, the thing is, the beauty is  _ in _ the potential of getting caught. Honestly. Trust me.”

His final sentence was punctuated with the pop of Aziraphale’s final button, and an audible groan from the angel himself as his cock was freed. Through his underwear, Crowley massaged Aziraphale’s cock, their bodies close enough together that ( _ at this point, at any rate, _ thought Aziraphale) they could be considered “just cuddling”. As Crowley began raking his nails up and down Aziraphale’s length, he was finding it increasingly difficult to stay upright. It had only been a few minutes, but, Someone, Crowley was right; the thrill of the situation certainly was intoxicating.

Aziraphale removed his hand from clutching Crowley’s arse to fumble behind him for the door handle. He needed to sit – or lie - down, before he fell down. Crowley’s firm grip through his shorts, bringing a delicious friction, combined with the  _ ache _ he had to be touched and to be touching was doing nothing for Aziraphale’s thigh muscles. Crowley, not removing his occupied hand for one second – if anything, grasping  _ harder _ – clicked his fingers and Aziraphale was, suddenly, reclining on the back seat.  _ Flash bastard,  _ Aziraphale thought, with a smirk.

Crowley was unable to see said smirk, as he was now working on pulling Aziraphale’s layers down,  _ just enough _ , to free his hard and aching cock. Crowley looked up, over the top of his sunglasses, and Aziraphale nearly discorporated on the spot. This was the stuff that smutty fics were made of, and here he was,  _ living it _ . Ever the pragmatist, though, Aziraphale stole a glance at his pocket watch; they had another seven minutes before the end of the musical.

Whether or not Crowley saw Aziraphale’s distracted glance at the time was unclear; but, with no preamble, without so much as a by-your-leave, Crowley took Aziraphale’s cock into his mouth and put that serpentine tongue of his  _ to work _ . All thoughts of being disturbed gone, Aziraphale was consumed by the feeling of Crowley licking, sucking, impossibly getting faster and faster. Crowley, it would seem, was slightly more aware of the potential for onlookers; he gently placed a finger on Aziraphale’s lips as he cried out, wanting more.

More he received, though, as Crowley added a hand into the mix, fondling and tugging at Aziraphale’s balls as his mouth moved up and down his length. Unbidden, Crowley eating one of those confounded red ice lollies came into Aziraphale’s head and he, in turn, came in Crowley’s mouth.

“Oh, dearest, I’m – “ Aziraphale scrambled to a sitting position. “I… I…”

Crowley swallowed. “-s fine, angel.” He wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb (rather obscenely, Aziraphale thought, filing the memory away for later). “Don’t just lie there…” He leered, motioning towards Aziraphale’s trousers. “Unless you want to be ready for Curly Haired Crowley, that is…” He raised an eyebrow.

Aziraphale blushed a deep red, and jumped to his feet, through the still-open door he was now horrified he had been making so much noise near. A furtive scan of the car park whilst he rebuttoned showed that they were still, thankfully, alone; no matter what Crowley might find thrilling, he wasn’t quite ready for an audience.

As if nothing had happened, Crowley was back to polishing the Bentley,  _ whistling, the incorrigible fiend _ . Aziraphale took a deep, shaky breath, exhaling loudly. If this was to be his life now, giving and taking pleasure, anywhere, at any opportunity, he might have to start going back to confession… 

From behind him, the doors opened and con goers flooded the car park, swarming around the Bentley like flies around Beezlebub. Crowley was batting away hands and answering rapid-fire questions with a stamina Aziraphale certainly couldn’t match after their… shenanigans. 

_ Just in time _ . Aziraphale smiled. He could get used to this...


	13. The Creator

As he sat in the front seat of the formerly-pyjama-clad-demon-nun-guitarist-Beelzebub’s car, Aziraphale reminisced about the times past that he had travelled to Tadfield. With Anathema (Lord heal her bike), with Madame Tracy (Lord, why Shadwell?) and with Crowley (Lord… he shook his head, remembering this afternoon’s antics with a blush).

“All right, there?” asked the formerly-pyjama-clad-demon-nun-guitarist-Beelzebub.

“Quite, quite!” said Aziraphale, briskly. “Much further?”

“I thought it was you that was directing us…” the formerly-pyjama-clad-demon-nun-guitarist-Beelzebub narrowed their eyes, reminding Aziraphale of their quizzing demeanour.

“Ah, yes! Well! Not much further!”

Aziraphale spoke with a confidence that he did not feel. Wanting to feel part of the group, for just a little while longer, he had commandeered a vehicle (he was sure that War-Crowley would have something to say about that, later) and decreed that no satellite navigation was needed, if they had him. In fact, the mobile devices that he had seen creep out of people’s pockets after more-than-a-few minutes of travel were useless, in any case; there was no signal to be found.

In the back of the car, Anathemmawww, Wisesnail and Anathemmawww's Spanish friend, Eva were excitedly discussing the prizes they had won during the convention. Evidently, they had formed the winning treasure hunt team, and were particularly enamoured with their prizes (slate coasters, adorned with artwork of himself and Crowley). Aziraphale admired the coasters with a forced smile. He _ loved _ a treasure hunt, and it would be rude to admit that he was mildly offended not to have been asked to join their team…

“I didn’t know you were doing the treasure hunt,” he commented, gazing out of the passenger window with an air of attempted nonchalance.

“We would have asked you to join us,” Anathemmawww insisted, “only it was after the vid show and we couldn’t find you…”

“I think you were off with LoverBoy... “ the formerly-pyjama-clad-demon-nun-guitarist-Beelzebub waggled their eyebrows suggestively.

“Ah.” Aziraphale fiddled with the chain of his pocket watch, willing back the blush that threatened to embarrass him further. 

“Did you know each other before the con?” Wisesnail suddenly piped up from the back. She gave a small yelp as Anathemmawww elbowed her in the side.

“Oh, yes, for quite a long time actually…”

“You might say… six thousand years?” Anathemmawww suggested with a giggle.

“Yes, quite…” Aziraphale tried for a smile, but it came out a little weak. “Only… well, I hadn’t expected to see him here, you see…”

“You didn’t know he was coming to the convention?” Eva exclaimed.

“Well…” Aziraphale was rapidly beginning to regret getting into this conversation. “Not exactly…”

“You mean you didn’t coordinate your costumes?” asked the formerly-pyjama-clad-demon-nun-guitarist-Beelzebub. “Because they are _ amazing_.”

“Why thank you, my dear. But no, coincidence, I’m afraid… And our costumes were apparently only _ second best _.” He pouted in what he hoped looked like mock consternation, though, in truth, his outrage was quite sincere.

“Maybe next year you should do the Bastille costume,” Anathemmawww suggested. “You would look _ amazing _ in that.”

“It’s true,” said Wisesnail, “even though you don’t have Michael Sheen’s nose.”

“You know, I think I have that costume,” Aziraphale said, choosing to ignore the nose comment. It was probably in the back of one of his wardrobes somewhere and he regretted now not bringing it along for the dinner (and being a little more competitive about the whole costume contest business). Perhaps he could even have persuaded Crowley to miracle up his garb from that era; that possibility was entirely too enticing…

He forced himself to refocus his attention on the conversation around him, which was, unfortunately, still on the subject of next year’s costumes.

“Did you see Mags last night as one of Crowley’s plants?” the formerly-pyjama-clad-demon-nun-guitarist-Beelzebub said. “It was amazing! We should all try to be inanimate objects next year!”

“I’ll be the thermos!” said Anathemmawww.

“Does Brother Snail count?” asked Wisesnail.

“Not strictly inanimate,” said Anathemmawww, “but we’ll allow it.”

Aziraphale allowed the conversation to drift around him. _ Next year _ was something he hadn’t thought about contemplating. The organisers had been noncommittal on the subject of there even _ being _ a next year, citing “limited series” and “not enough interest.” But this weekend had been so much fun, and, now that Aziraphale knew what to expect, he wanted there to be a next year so he could come armed with his Bastille costume, learn to make a vid, maybe contribute to the con zine, and generally spend a weekend surrounded by these lovely people who had been so kind to him…

How could he expect to stay in touch with his new friends, though, while continuing to deceive them into thinking he was merely imitating a character from a television show? Deceit didn’t sit comfortably with Aziraphale - at least, not when he was deceiving people he _ liked _...

Feeling suddenly wistful, Aziraphale gazed out of the window where the late afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees to create dappled patterns on the country road. He hadn’t been out here for several years now, but it was pleasantly familiar. Aziraphale’s first journey to Tadfield had been in search of the right boy, the actual Antichrist. He could recall, vividly, both the terror of being in a car with a literal ‘speed demon’ and the rather lovely way in which the setting sun highlighted Crowley’s cheekbones as he drove. Always the same with Crowley: a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside a tight-black-trousered enigma. Aziraphale could distinctly recall “These Are the Days of Our Lives” playing (you couldn’t drive anywhere without becoming familiar with _ their _ particular brand of bebop). Who knew that, in truth, it would be today’s drive that would be called the days of their lives, lives that they could now spend together, on their own - 

“Well? Do you?” the formerly-pyjama-clad-demon-nun-guitarist-Beelzebub was staring accusatorially at Aziraphale, having stopped the car on an impossibly tiny country lane.

“Sorry, dear, do I…?” asked Aziraphale, in as placatory a tone as possible.

**“**Do. You. Know. The. Way. To. Tadfield. Or Not.” the formerly-pyjama-clad-demon-nun-guitarist-Beelzebub asked through gritted teeth.

Aziraphale cursed his keenness to join in with the group travel, his ability to daydream and his rather useless directional skills. “It feels like flashes of love” wasn’t going to appease the formerly-pyjama-clad-demon-nun-guitarist-Beelzebub, he suspected; they were glaring at him menacingly.

Aziraphale looked around. The road _ did _ look familiar, but then Oxfordshire country roads tended to look somewhat alike and Aziraphale had probably seen most of them over the course of the centuries... 

“I have to admit… that I do not,” Aziraphale said, finally, with a look on his face that he hoped captured both ‘apologetic’ and ‘please-let-me-still-be-your-friend’. 

The formerly-pyjama-clad-demon-nun-guitarist-Beelzebub sighed. The passengers in the backseat were avidly studying their feet, the headrests, the vista from the window; anything but the reddening face of the formerly-pyjama-clad-demon-nun-guitarist-Beelzebub.

As if by divine intervention, a streak of white flashed past. “Gabe!” Anathemmawww shouted. “Follow that Polo!”

It required a Crowley-esque level of driving from the formerly-pyjama-clad-demon-nun-guitarist-Beelzebub to keep up with Registration Gabriel, but keep up they did, arriving only moments later to… _ Oh dear _ , Aziraphale thought. _ Gabriel’s face makes the formerly-pyjama-clad-demon-nun-guitarist-Beelzebub look like they were about to present me with a cream cake… _

Gabriel was standing in the car park, hands on hips, scowling. She called to the group, as they got out of the car: “You! What do you think you’re playing at?” 

There was not a single member of the travelling ensemble that didn’t cringe, although Aziraphale imagined that they each had their own reasons for doing so. He knew he did; he had heard the same tone in Heaven more times than he had had sushi for dinner. 

It transpired that there had been a travelling system (_ of course there was a system… _ Aziraphale would have rolled his eyes, had he wished to court discorporation), of which they had fallen foul. After being told to be wary of War-Crowley’s wrath, they were dispatched. They unanimously looked behind them as they set off, checking (well, Aziraphale certainly was) that Gabriel wasn’t about to smite them as they all-but-fled to catch up with their fellow congoers in the village (and apologise to War-Crowley…).

********

They found the Bentley in the centre of the village, parked outside the church. Groups of costumed fans were taking turns posing for pictures while Crowley watched intently, no doubt ready to discorporate anyone who dared to touch the Bentley while wearing jewellery (Aziraphale touched it all the time while wearing his ring, and Crowley had never said a word, but Aziraphale decided not to mention that).

Aziraphale sidled up to him and clasped his hand, feeling really quite brave. Crowley didn’t take his eyes off the fans near his car, but his fingers curled around Aziraphale’s in a most delightfully possessive way.

There was a large group photo being taken presently, with a single angel in the middle, surrounded by Crowleys. It gave Aziraphale rather pleasant thoughts that he decided to file away for later consideration.

“Isn’t this wonderful,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley tore his gaze away from the Bentley to raise an eyebrow at Aziraphale. “You’re getting ideas, aren’t you?”

“Well, yes, of course, but I mean, all of this,” Aziraphale made a gesture that encompassed all of the costumed humans around them, by the Bentley and posing on the bench outside the church.

“It’s weird, is what it is,” Crowley grumbled.

“I trust my favourite tea expert enjoyed her ride?” 

Crowley was clearly trying very hard to suppress a smile, but failing miserably. “Yeah,” he said.

The tea expert in question, Diminutive Crowley, was currently modelling on the bench in front of the church. Aziraphale could well remember sitting there with Actual Crowley after the world hadn’t ended, reflecting on the ineffability of it all…

“Do you think perhaps _ this _ was part of the ineffable plan?” Aziraphale mused aloud.

Crowley shrugged. “Wouldn’t put it past Her. I mean, if She meant for us to work together…”

“Not this,” Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand. “I mean all of this,” Aziraphale gestured again to the costumed crowds.

Crowley tore his gaze away from the Bentley to give Aziraphale a disbelieving look. “You think She planned on a bunch of humans who write erotica about us coming to the home of the Antichrist to dress up as us and pose for pictures with my car?”

“That would certainly be ineffable,” Aziraphale said with a haughty sniff. “And the Almighty does have form, inspiring humans to write stories about Her, and Above and Below, and it _ has _ been a couple of millennia since the last bestseller…”

Aziraphale had got so caught up in his musing that it took him a moment to realise Crowley was shaking, and a moment longer to realise he was shaking with _ suppressed laughter _.

“I don’t know what _ you’re _ laughing at,” Aziraphale snapped.

“You think God wrote _ Good Omens _?” Crowley cackled, not bothering to suppress his laughter now.

“Do you have any better explanations for how the humans came to make a TV show about us?” Aziraphale asked icily. He quietly planted the suggestion in Petite Crowley’s mind that she might want to have another lick of the Bentley. “Or one single better explanation?”

“All right,” Crowley’s laughter subsided. “But… uh… didn’t you notice who wrote the book? And the TV show?”

“I read a Wikipedia page,” said Aziraphale. “A former BBC journalist, if I recall? I’m afraid I don’t watch television so I’m not familiar with her work…” He didn’t say so, but if God were to offer divine inspiration in the twenty-first century, a BBC journalist seemed as good a recipient as any…

“If you don’t recognise her name,” Crowley said delicately, “it’s because you know her as Pepper…”

“Oh, my goodness… Well, that certainly explains things.” Aziraphale tightened his grip on Crowley’s hand as he recalled the young girl who had single-handedly defeated War all those years ago (for all the good that had done; humans had got right back to work re-inventing War the moment Adam had reset things...).

“Yeah,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale watched as another Aziraphale and Crowley posed in front of the Bentley, kissing for their photograph. It made him want to take pictures with _ his _Crowley, so he pulled Crowley over to the car to wait their turn.

“What are you doing?” Crowley hissed.

“We’re having our picture taken,” said Aziraphale calmly. He turned to Diminutive Crowley, who was standing close to them, and fished his phone out of his pocket. “Would you, my dear?”

Diminutive Crowley took the phone - it had a full battery, despite never having been charged, because that is how Aziraphale expected it to behave - and gestured them to take their positions.

“You see my car every day,” Crowley protested.

“It’s not the same,” said Aziraphale, stubbornly wrapping his arm around Crowley’s waist. “This is _ fun _.”

“It’s ridiculous,” Crowley grumbled.

“Oh _ do _ shut up,” said Aziraphale, and he decided to facilitate Crowley’s compliance by kissing him, quite firmly, up against the side of the Bentley. The clicking of numerous cameras suggested there would be multiple permanent records of this moment, and Aziraphale was quite determined to save every one.

Some time later, and somewhat breathless and dishevelled, they broke apart, only to be ushered over to the bench outside the church, where there were numerous more pictures. Aziraphale discreetly miracled up a wine bottle, which they passed back and forth, just as they had years ago after the world had not ended. Then Crowley turned to him with a shy, hopeful expression, and said, “You can stay at my place, if you like?”

This time, unlike the last time, Aziraphale had no reticence at all; he gladly accepted. Then it felt appropriate to kiss Crowley _ again _, so he did, and if everyone in Tadfield that evening took a photograph of that, it didn’t matter one bit, because they were truly on their own side now.

********

At last, War-Crowley called time and the excited congoers began to make their way towards the pub for dinner. Aziraphale and Crowley hung back for a moment, until they were alone on the bench, just as they had been all those years ago.

“Wait,” Aziraphale said, as Crowley moved to stand up. Crowley looked over at him, eyebrow raised. “That doesn’t explain it at all.”

“What’s that, angel?”

“If Pepper… well, she was there for certain events, of course, but how could she possibly have known about the Garden? Or the Bastille?”

“Uh…” Crowley shifted uncomfortably. “Not sure. Friends with the Antichrist though, isn’t she? He must… know things…”

“Such specific things, though?”

“It’s ineffable, like you said.” Crowley stood and offered his hand to Aziraphale. “Come on, don’t want to keep you from your sticky toffee pudding.”

Aziraphale allowed himself to be hauled to his feet and they began to walk, hand in hand, towards the pub. With at least half his mind occupied with the prospect of sticky toffee pudding, it took the other half a moment to catch up to how evasive Crowley was being.

“You’re hiding something from me,” Aziraphale declared as they reached the entrance of the Stag and Huntsman.

“And why would you think that?”

“You may be retired, but you’re still a demon.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and led them inside. Then, suddenly, something seemed to catch his eye that made him change his mind, and he hastily dragged Aziraphale back out of the door.

“Thing is,” Crowley said, turning to face him. “Thing _ is _, Pepper might have had a bit of extra information. Just for the bits she wasn’t, y’know... there for.”

“Obviously,” said Aziraphale. Then it dawned on him. “You mean from _ you _?”

“Only a few details. Minor ones, really.”

Aziraphale’s mind raced over the small portion of the show he’d seen; only twenty-eight minutes in total, but _ full _ of detail Pepper couldn’t possibly have known without help… “You _ helped her write it _!” he exclaimed.

“Shhh,” Crowley cast a furtive glance towards the door. “Only a bit. And I didn’t know she was going to publish it, let alone make a whole TV show!”

“Why on Earth would you be discussing Hamlet if _ not _ for her book?”

Crowley shrugged. “We were just drinking.”

Aziraphale gave him an incredulous look. “Why were you drinking with an eleven year-old?”

“Uh, angel, she’s forty…”

“Oh, right.” Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably. Human lifespans went by so terribly quickly. “In that case, why have you been drinking with her and not inviting me?”

“I dunno, who else was I going to confess my hopeless love to?”

Aziraphale heaved an exasperated sigh. “Me, you idiot.”

The door flung open, to reveal War-Crowley. Her already frosty glare was only made more intimidating by the fact that, today, she was wearing yellow contact lenses. “Are you coming in?” she snapped. “We’re all waiting for you.”

Chastened, Aziraphale and Crowley shuffled inside and took their seats at the end of one of the long tables.

“Now that we’re all here,” said War-Crowley with another pointed glare in their direction. “I’d like to welcome our special guest, a local Tadfield resident you might recognise as the writer and showrunner of Good Omens!”

Gasps and scattered applause erupted around the room, and in walked an almost-familiar figure, almost thirty years older then when Aziraphale had last seen her. She took the seat at the head of their table, and turned a smile on them, confident and knowing and amused, that Aziraphale would have recognised anywhere.

“Good evening,” said Pepper. With a smirk in Aziraphale’s direction, she added, “Long time no see…”


	14. The Last Supper

Pepper patiently answered many, many questions on the filmmaking process and, other than the occasional knowing glance in Aziraphale and Crowley’s direction, entirely failed to acknowledge that they had had anything at all to do with it. It was a relief, but simultaneously infuriating. Aziraphale had a list of questions that was long and exhaustive, but he could pose none of them when surrounded, as they were, by humans. It was the _ worst _ sort of agony, the sort that could only be drowned with _ extraordinary _ quantities of alcohol. The duck parfait Aziraphale had ordered for his starter was quite delicious, but insufficient to distract him. The rather splendid Merlot was doing a slightly better job...

_ Why did you have the on-screen Aziraphale look at Crowley with those hopeless lovelorn expressions? _ he wanted to ask. _ I have never once looked at Crowley like that _ . He didn’t voice the question, but he could already hear the Crowley-voice in his head respond, _ You dooooo _ . Well, even if that _ was _ the case ( _ which it wasn’t… _ ), Aziraphale was desperate to acknowledge the inaccuracies - he still couldn’t quite believe the inclusion of the _ Celestial Observer _!

To drown out his inner Crowley and to forget, if not forgive, the glaring errors, Aziraphale took a long gulp of wine and looked around the room. Almost the entire convention was here, crammed into this old pub, many in costume, some in regular clothes, all talking animatedly about the improbable story that had brought them all together. As he watched them talk among themselves, Aziraphale tried to imprint each and every one of their faces into his memory for future recollection. Six thousand years is a lot of memories, but he was willing to give up each and every one of them to make room for more memories with Crowley. This is where it all began, and he wanted to hang on to that for dear life.

“You know what doesn’t get appreciated enough?” a loud voice across the table declared, pulling Aziraphale back to the present. A middle-aged gentleman took a sip of beer and continued, “No one talks about how much of _ Good Omens _ is based on a true story.”

Aziraphale froze, and he could feel Crowley go still beside him. Under the table, Aziraphale covered Crowley’s hand with his own.

“Of course it’s a true story,” said Diminutive Crowley. “The real Aziraphale and Crowley are probably in this room right now.”

Laughter erupted around them, and Aziraphale nervously joined in, while watching Pepper, who was smirking, eyebrow raised.

The man who had spoken waved a hand dismissively. “Not _ that _ part. I just mean - well, a lot of you are probably too young to remember this, it was almost thirty years ago now, but all there was all this weird stuff on the news. Aliens and raining fish and nuclear reactors going missing…” he took another swig of beer. “Weird stuff. Like April Fools Day, but it was summer and it went on for days…”

“That was _ real _?” said War-Crowley. “I was just a kid, but I remember the kraken on the news… gave me nightmares… but then no one ever mentioned it again, so I thought I imagined it…”

“That’s the weirdest thing,” the man continued. “No one ever _ did _mention it again! I can’t believe yours,” he gestured towards Pepper with his beer, “was the first book I read that used all that stuff in a story.”

“They said it was a mass hallucination or something,” said Pepper, evenly. “But you never know…” she glanced towards Aziraphale and Crowley, “it _ could _ have all been part of a narrowly averted apocalypse…”

The arrival of their main courses forestalled further questions. Almost everyone had forgotten what they had ordered, so War-Crowley had to pull out a printed spreadsheet and direct the waiters around the room. The commotion provided enough distraction for Pepper to turn to Aziraphale and Crowley and say, “Enjoying the convention, are we?” with a pointed glance down to where their hands were (perhaps not-so-subtly) clasped under the table.

For the second time this weekend, Aziraphale revisited the feeling of wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole. He gulped. “It has been most… enlightening.”

Aziraphale was uncomfortably aware of Pepper’s gaze sweeping past him to Crowley, on his other side, an unmistakable smirk that told of a private joke he was not party to.

“Your fans are a bunch of weirdos,” Crowley grumbled, steadfastly refusing to look back at her.

“As it should be.” Pepper raised her glass and winked at Diminutive Crowley, who didn’t seem _ at all _ displeased to be labelled a weirdo.

********

People ate and talked and ate and talked, mouths constantly occupied with something. Aziraphale enjoyed, but rarely indulged in, a good Sunday roast, but he was distracted by what he might rather his mouth be doing right now. He was torn between asking Pepper each and every question he had racing through his mind, and something obscene with Crowley. Even lewd thoughts were not the distraction he had hoped for; his unhelpful brain kept circling back around to the idea that Crowley had another friend, beside him. For how long now? How had that even come to pass? None of the Them had ever got in touch with _ him _ and asked if _ he _needed to confess his hopeless love to someone. He’d never had anyone to discuss his feelings for Crowley with. Well, besides the entire Internet, and perhaps - his gaze flickered around the room - some of his new friends here now.

Pepper was currently regaling the table with a tale of a mishap during filming that had resulted in the passenger side door of the Bentley being whipped clean off. The congoers around them were listening, enraptured, and perhaps only Aziraphale was aware of how tense Crowley was beside him.

“Are you all right, dear?” Aziraphale murmured.

“She’s. Doing. This. On. Purpose,” Crowley replied, through gritted teeth.

Aziraphale turned to look at Pepper, who was, indeed, casting occasional glances in Crowley’s direction while enjoying her story entirely too much. He squeezed Crowley’s knee and said, “How very unkind of her,” while privately deciding that he continued to like Pepper very much indeed.

Across the table, Diminutive Crowley, seeming to notice Actual Crowley’s discomfort, chimed in, “Of course, your car is _ far _ more beautiful and no one would ever _ dare _to hurt her.”

Crowley visibly brightened. “And this,” he declared, “is why Diminutive Crowley is allowed in my car, and _ you _,” he gestured drunkenly towards Pepper, “are not.”

“Cheers to that,” said Diminutive Crowley.

“The way he drives,” said Aziraphale to Pepper, “not being allowed in his car is a blessing.”

“See, this is what I’m talking about,” Crowley’s voice climbed towards a drunken rant. “My friends are _ bastards _. I need new friends.” He topped up Diminutive Crowley’s glass with the last of their wine. “You’re my new friend.”

Aziraphale joined in the laughter of the rest of the table, but it was thin. The irrational jealousy he’d been feeling about Pepper was growing into something darker, colder. Crowley was joking, and he was drunk, but the word _ friend _ echoed in his head and clenched at his chest. _ Friend _. Is that what they would go back to, once this was over?

Not even the arrival of his sticky toffee pudding could brighten Aziraphale’s mood. It wasn’t that he wasn’t _ enjoying _ the convention; it had been the best time of his life, beating asking the nine circles of Hell for a rubber duck by a country mile. It was simply that thinking _ they were not missed opportunities _was not cutting the mustard tonight; Aziraphale was tipsy, over analyzing, and even slightly… concupiscent. 

“_ I wasted time, and now doth time waste me, _” Aziraphale quoted, softly.

Diminutive Crowley paused in their retelling of their epic tale of their ride in the Bentley to ask, “Sorry, what was that?”

“Shakespeare, dear - don’t you mind me!” Aziraphale smiled, gently “I’m just being a silly goose!”

“Alcohol!” blurted Crowley, abruptly. “The remedy for all… geese-related ills!”

“We have had _ quite _ a lot already, dearest!” Aziraphale chided.

“Oh, lighten up, angel! Here - “

Crowley yelped as Aziraphale grasped his finger under the table and twisted, perhaps a little harder than he had intended. 

“Have you finally taken leave of your senses, dearest, or are you _ trying to get us caught? _ ” Aziraphale’s voice was menacingly low. His empty wine glass, that Crowley was, presumably, about to fill with a _ miracle in full view of everyone _ was the only thing that sat between them and Diminutive Crowley, who was looking at them quizzically.

“I… I thought he was too drunk to pour!” Aziraphale’s fake brightness was writ large in a smile that didn’t _ quite _ reach his eyes. 

“Allow me,” Diminutive Crowley replied, with a piercing stare. 

_ My, they really are quite fearsome, _ thought Aziraphale. _ It’s no wonder Crowley couldn’t break the speed limit on their watch! _ Aziraphale knew that this would be _ all _ he would hear about this evening… and that really did warrant more alcohol.

A fortunate distraction from the near-miss miracle arrived just then (perhaps... miraculously) in the form of a surprise birthday cake for Diminutive Crowley. The entire room broke into a chaotic rendition of _ Happy Birthday To You _, with which Crowley joined in with particular gusto, belting “Happy Birthday, dear Diminutive Croooowleeeeey” at the top of his lungs.

More wine was going to be _ very _necessary, Aziraphale decided.

********

Intoxicated. Inebriated. _ Squifffffffffy. _ Aziraphale snorted. He was all of these things and more ( _ paraletic, plastered… CRAPULENT _). He snorted again.

“Wassss so funny, angel?” Crowley slurred, sitting to his left, one of the few remaining diners left in the Tadfield public house. 

They were sitting in the same places as they had all evening, the centre of the conversation, sharing ‘in-character’ anecdotes with anyone who would listen. Aziraphale was not _ quite _drunk enough not to have noticed Pepper surreptitiously taking notes throughout... Crowley’s earlier misstep with the miracle was forgotten by the third bottle of Merlot; what’s a nearly-miracle in a communal area between friends?

“Nothing, nothing, dearest, I was thinking of… well, quite how _ pissed _ we are!” Aziraphale sniggered like a schoolboy.

“Pissed? _ Pissed?! _You’re cons.. cons… definitely more pissed than I am,” Crowley argued.

“Let’s see, shall we? What’s the best test for determining who is the… drunkenest?” Aziraphale called to the assembled crowd. 

“Walking in a straight line, or touching your nose,” the formerly-pyjama-clad-demon-nun-guitarist-Beelzebub said, authoritatively.

“Right,” said Crowley, rolling up his sleeves and pushing past the chairs to find some floor space. Aziraphale continued to absentmindedly eat his sticky toffee pudding, less absentmindedly considering if they would let him take the sauce away for… later…

Crowley was, for all intents and purposes, limbering up, it would seem - rolling his head from side to side, stretching. _ Show-off _ , thought Aziraphale, affectionately. _ Let’s see how he fares with… _

A quick furtive glance to confirm that everyone was taking note of Crowley’s preparations, and Aziraphale slyly miracled a comedy banana skin into existence. The guffaws that emitted from Aziraphale as Crowley went the proverbial ‘arse-over-tit’ could have been heard back at Lane End, along with the mystifying calls of “What are they putting in bananas these days?” The reciprocal laughter was just as loud when Crowley miracled Aziraphale a rather unpleasant stain on the front of his trousers, only visible when he stood to try the touching of the nose experiment.

Minor havoc ensued, with others clambering to try to walk the tiled lines of the pub’s floor accurately, knocking over chairs and causing glasses to wobble. Of those that had been drinking, only Pepper managed it flawlessly, much to Crowley’s visible annoyance. Aziraphale knew that Crowley had truly tried; yet, even with a miracle on both of their parts, walking in a straight line seemed impossible for him. Crowley’s chagrin was only made worse by the calls of “Snake hips!” and “You can’t walk in a straight line when you’re sober!”

Pepper, having noted the look on Crowley’s face and hastily taken her bow, declared it was time to depart (although this process took many minutes longer than it should, amid the raucous cheering from the crowd). Aziraphale and Crowley saw her to the door, where she declined a lift on the basis that she lived “about twenty seconds stagger in that direction,” with a vague wave of her arm.

“It was lovely to see you again, my dear,” said Aziraphale.

“Likewise,” Pepper grinned. “And you,” she gathered Crowley into a firm hug, ignoring his grumbled protestations. “Thank _ Someone _ I don’t have to listen to you pining any more.” 

“Dunno what you’re talking about,” Crowley said, as they pulled apart.

“‘Course you don’t.” She rolled her eyes. “Enterprise on Thursday, yeah? You should both come!”

Aziraphale agreed, with a sense of trepidation, and grasped Crowley’s hand as they watched her walk safely to her door.

“You don’t have to come,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale hesitated, then settled on, “We’ll see.” Thursday may only be a few days away, but the gap between now and then might as well be millennia; who could say what was going to happen once they burst the convention bubble?

As they made their way back inside, they passed War-Crowley, who was settling the bill with the pub. “You’d better sort out the mess you made in there,” she grumbled at them as they hastily filed through.

They staggered back towards the private room they’d had dinner in and stood in the doorway, taking in the scene before them: tables moved out of the way, chairs upended, glasses tipped over (though inexplicably unbroken). “Let’s just… clear all of this up, shall we?” Aziraphale asked, to no-one in particular.

It was Crowley that stopped him, this time, as he threw his arms wide to tidy a room using a miracle that the room thought was only a figment of a writer’s imagination. Suddenly considerably more sober, Aziraphale said weakly, “Do you think it’s time to go?” 

“Probably,” replied Crowley, seemingly now just as sober. “There is Diminutive Crowley’s cake to try…”

Aziraphale knew, as he shrugged on his jacket, that Crowley was trying to cheer him up with the mention of cake (and very delicious cake it looked, too). He was struggling to be cheered, though; the shock of nearly revealing himself had largely diminished the effects of the alcohol. If only people could _ know _ that they truly _ were _Aziraphale and Crowley, they could perform a miracle for each and every one of them, give them everything their hearts desired… keep them in their lives just a little while longer.

Aziraphale cleared his throat.

“Dearests,” he started. Crowley looked up, alarmed. Aziraphale caught his eye, sharing a mollifying glance. “This has been one of the greatest weekends of my life - which, as you know, has already spanned 6,000 years!”

The crowd laughed, raising the odd glass here and there.

“_ Thou mak’st me merry: I am full of pleasure; let us be jocund! _”

A rousing cheer swept the room, despite, it was fair to presume, the majority either not knowing or not being sober enough to remember the meaning of “jocund”. 

Crowley looked suitably pacified; Aziraphale had not stood and revealed them for the angel and demon that they truly were. He had revealed himself as a liar, though, once again; there was no jocundity to be had where he was concerned. Using Shakespeare again to cover his true feelings, unable to share the wonder of new friendships, the terror of losing them, the fear that Crowley, too, would tire of him once they returned to daily life. 

“A penny for them, angel?” Crowley asked, laying his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

“Come, they are hardly worth half of that!” replied Aziraphale, with a smile he did not feel. “Let’s head back to Lane End and get just as… _ mullered _ as we were a moment ago - it will do me good!”

Not needing to be asked twice, Crowley ushered the stragglers into the street and headed for the Bentley. Realising which way they were going, Diminutive Crowley called after them, “Hey, you can’t drive.”

“I’m completely sober,” Actual Crowley protested.

Diminutive Crowley’s fearsome glare was not to be challenged, so Actual Crowley turned pleading eyes on Aziraphale. “Angel, back me up…”

Aziraphale shrugged. “You have had a lot to drink.”

“Angel,” Crowley hissed in his ear. “You _ know _ I’m sober.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale replied calmly, “but _ they _ can’t know that, can they? Come on, we’ll get the car in the morning.”

Amid many grumbled complaints, they boarded the minibus, earning yet another glare from War-Crowley for holding everyone up. Crowley’s complaints quietened, though, when Aziraphale sat beside him and took his hand. For the second time, they rode a bus together out of Tadfield.

********

_ This, above all: to thine own self, be true _ was one of Aziraphale’s favourite Shakespeare quotes. He was so taken with it that he had it on a framed postcard in the bookshop, next to the “Hang in there, Baby” poster that Crowley had brought him after a particularly pernicious meeting with Gabriel. He was not exactly being _ untrue _ to himself at present moment - he genuinely was happy - but he _ was _doing all that he could to ensure that the latest bottle of wine was drowning all previous sorrows, even if they were now down to the Blossom Hill.

The late-night crowd was enjoying a game of Good Omens-themed Taboo created by one of the congoers, in which players took it in turns to have their teammate guess words on cards without using certain prescribed words. It took Aziraphale a little while to get the hang of the game. “Well, now, let me see, which story to choose…” earned him such an exasperated look from Crowley that he thought he would be relegated to sleeping in the car park… Similarly, “I do like it as a snack”, for sushi, had got such a wide range of answers (including “Crowley”) that Aziraphale was now starving. But, once in the swing of it, they were unstoppable; Aziraphale was almost sorry that there was not a prize involved. 

Before long, they were banned from being on the same team, because they were deemed “too good at it”. Aziraphale was hardly to blame that 6,000 years of shared experiences made for quick-fire answers, once he had got the hang of the game!

Teams were rearranged, and Aziraphale found himself, to his abject horror, playing with Registration Gabriel, while Crowley was paired with War-Crowley, the two of _ them _having been separated for similar reasons.

“I… I’m afraid I don’t know who this is,” Aziraphale said, staring at his ‘Giles Baddicombe’ card.

“Then move on! Chop, chop, we’re on the clock!” Gabriel chided him.

“Uh…” Aziraphale pulled out a new card. _ Phew _. “You.”

“Gabriel.”

“Yes!” Aziraphale heaved a sigh of relief. “Well, that one was easy…”

“Still on a timer,” Gabriel snapped.

“Right, right…” Aziraphale cast a helpless glance at Crowley, who was enjoying the spectacle far too much. “Oh! Ah, I had the most splendid darjeeling there just last week…”

“_ What _?”

“The chocolate mousse is quite delightful too…”

“Time’s up,” War-Crowley called.

“What the _ actual fuck _?” Gabriel berated him.

Aziraphale meekly handed the cards over to Crowley, who tried to console him by telling him that was a perfectly Nice and Accurate description of the Ritz. Crowley fared no better with War-Crowley, though, as he fumbled over describing “that absolute bastard who sent me on a wild goose chase to Cornwall to tempt someone who was in bloody Ireland because the stupid git has the _ worst _ handwriting…”

It was clear to Aziraphale, who recalled the incident well from the extensive drinking session that had accompanied Crowley’s ensuing rant, that he was talking about Ligur, but War-Crowley’s glare was back in full force. “You can’t use examples from _ fan fiction _ if I haven’t _ read it _,” she snapped.

The hilarity continued into Cards Against Armageddon, which Aziraphale assumed would be some sort of role-playing affair and, quite firmly… wasn’t. The taste of angel semen, Crowley’s favourite sex toy and what makes Aziraphale weak at the knees were not only up for debate, but could all seemingly be answered with “The Archangel Fucking Gabriel.” 

Finally, the lounge was quiet, with only a circle of die-hard revellers... drinking cocoa. Wishing to stay on safe ground, Aziraphale turned to Anathemmawww and slurred, “Your zine fic!”

“Oh!” Anathemmawww looked up in surprise. “You’ve read it already?”

“Lovely!” Aziraphale waved his hands vaguely, not quite capable in his current state of articulating literary criticism. “I really did steal a book from the Sheriff of Nottingham once, you know! Dastardly fellow.”

Anathemmawww giggled, perhaps assuming he was just leaning into the character again, so Aziraphale charged on, “So funny that you wrote a story about Crow - Crow -” he hiccupped, “him,” he gestured towards Crowley, “writing a book about me. And him. Y’see -”

“His point,” Crowley jumped in suddenly, flopping down on the sofa in between them. “His _ point _ is… foxes.”

“That’s my point,” Aziraphale agreed, easily derailed. “Bushy tails. _ Fine _ bushy tails. I might not be a television watcher…” he hiccuped again “...but even _ I _ can appreciate Robin Hood. I have that fox on a coaster, you know…”

“Ooh, great _ sexy _bugger”, Wisesnail added, to a unanimous chortle.

“That’s his point!” Crowley exclaimed. Aziraphale blushed. 

“I have a first edition of one of the Robin Hood texts,” said Aziraphale, keen to change the subject (he could feel himself blushing… again...). 

He was helped by the fluffy-haired Aziraphale of Many Costumes, who spoke in exclamations: “Favourite books! Recommendations!” 

Azirphale longed to tell tales of the bookshop, but, in truth, his mention of his collection only moments ago had soured his mood; returning to real life would mean getting to see his prized texts, but was that worth it, now he had sampled friendship, sampled love? He studied his cocoa, trying to hold on to the merriment of earlier.

Crowley was clearly on a roll, holding court, giving voluble and Wrong Opinions (™) on any novel that anyone held dear. He was currently going toe-to-toe with War-Crowley, now looking adorable in Aziraphale-themed pyjamas, but still with the fire of both of her former incarnations.

“Oh, come ON!” Crowley shouted. “Tolkien?! You have to be kidding me. I wish that had been around in the 19th century, would have been easier to get to sleep that way! _ Endlesssss _ discussions when pursuing the some-word-no-one-can-pronounce to some- _ place _ -no-one-can-pronounce and yet the Battle of Helm’s Deep gets a handful of pages? _ For an entire battle _?”

“Tolkien wasn’t Peter Jackson,” War-Crowley protested. “And no one wants to read hundreds of pages of fighting.”

“_ I _ do,” Crowley insisted.

“What about the Silmarillion?” interjected Mags, the erstwhile plant. 

“Sim.. Sin…” Crowley fumbled.

Aziraphale was entirely unsure why the assembled group chose that moment to shout “FISH STEW!” but it seemed so very good natured, he couldn’t understand Crowley’s pout.

Sinaminamen?” Crowley sulked. “Never heard of it…”

Aziraphale shook his head. Trust Crowley to back out of an argument when he wasn’t winning. Lost, again, in his head, Aziraphale thought of all of the times Crowley _ had _ won, had saved him from discorporation and, as in the case of Gabriel, sometimes worse. He brightened as he remembered the script book he had won in the raffle - surely that would answer some of the questions he had for Pepper, and would show him Crowley’s version, at least, of their shared memories. 

Quickly and quietly, he retrieved it from his room.

“Where did you go, angel?” Crowley slurred.

“The bathroom, dearest. _ Got to keep up the pretence, you know, _ ” Aziraphale replied, conspiratorially. He had no wish to draw attention to the script book, lest Crowley realise how left out he felt after hearing about his meetings with Pepper. Another person in on the jokes and references, in fact, worse, _ writing _ the jokes and references, with Aziraphale remaining on the outside: “fish stew” meant nothing to him. 

It wasn’t Crowley’s fault he didn’t enjoy television. It wasn’t Pepper’s fault that Crowley had needed another friend. It wasn’t the congoers fault he couldn’t join in; it wasn’t _ anyone’s _ fault he felt like this, at all. He just wanted to _ join in. _ With a sigh and a shake of his head, Aziraphale flipped open the script book and found the deleted scene he had been so excited about earlier. _ Just the ticket, _ he thought. _ Buck up, Aziraphale! _

********

The conversation had moved on by the time Aziraphale had read the deleted scene, a smile on his face and a tear in his eye. What a coincidence that, only this morning, Crowley had re-enacted this very scene (well… he had tried!).

Suddenly, Aziraphale’s mind cleared. He _ was _ part of all of this; he _ WAS _ all of this! Him and Crowley, Crowley and him; without them, there _ was _ no _ Good Omens _ . How could he have felt anything other than included in what was, in reality, his own life? It gave him hope; hope that, when they returned to London, things might not go back to _ exactly _ how they were before. Hope that Crowley might want to visit with flowers and chocolates once again, chocolates they could eat, together, in bed…

“Gather round, gather round!” Aziraphale had just the idea to get back into the swing of things, to feel part of everything once again, and remind Crowley _ exactly _how long he had had these feelings for; surely, they weren’t going to disappear after a weekend!

Aziraphale had everyone’s attention now. “Something I know not everyone will have seen…” (some snorts, the loudest from the once-more-pyjama-clad-demon-nun-guitarist-Beelzebub, who was known to have seen, heard and read _ everything _ ). “The deleted scene from the script book! I thought _ LoverBoy _ here and I could re-enact it for you… unless those that took first place in the costume competition would be better placed…?” Aziraphale’s sarcasm was met with chuckles; this truly was the _ nicest _ crowd!

After Registration Gabriel flatly refused to join in, and others rallied around to save the show, they were ready to perform. Having been a terrified plant, Mags was an excellent Gabriel, paying extra and highly comedic attention to what Aziraphale learned was called the ‘Hammaconda’ in the undressing-at-the-tailor’s scene. Those familiar with the script book joined in the chorus of “Michael’s a wanker,” and Aziraphale could already see the phrase “thwarts me… thwartingly…” being something that people would shout in unison at next year’s convention. 

A round of applause concluded the skit, and, after a bow, Aziraphale made sure to collect the chocolate and carnation that had, once again, stood in for those brought on the opening of the bookshop.

Crowley, having finished preening with the attention, leant over and whispered, “Later on, I’m going to give you more than chocolates and flowers, angel…”

Aziraphale blushed. His spirits had lifted… as had certain… other parts of his anatomy.

“Why wait? We have entertained the crowds enough tonight… let us… entertain each other.”

Aziraphale’s salacious wink was clearly whatever-the-serpentine-equivalent-of-catnip-is to Crowley; he grabbed his wrist, gave a hasty “See ya!” to the gathered group and dragged Aziraphale from the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would also like to read about when Aziraphale discovers that the notoriously wicked Sheriff of Nottingham has laid claim to one of the rarest works of fiction ever written, and must team up with his mortal enemy (a demon) to resolve the situation, check out ["The Literary Merit of Myth and Legend"](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/The_Ineffable_Con_Zine/works/21164576) by StarofAntiquan!


	15. The Snake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: Anyone that wants to avoid some snake-on-angel action, stop reading when the lights are turned out and wait for chapter 16!

They were barely inside Crowley’s room before Aziraphale had him pressed back against the door. He kissed Crowley with all the finesse his tipsy state could muster, which is to say it was clumsy and messy, but delightfully thrilling. He ran his hands over now-familiar hips while he kissed his way down Crowley’s throat, murmuring, “ _ A thousand kisses buys my heart from me… _ ”

“More Shakespeare?” said Crowley, arching his back.

“Mmm,” Aziraphale licked at Crowley’s throat and added, “but he was only human, and you had my heart before you ever touched me…” He continued his ministrations and was quite thoroughly exploring a collarbone when the texture of the skin beneath his tongue began to change. Suddenly, he found his face buried in fur.

Perplexed, he staggered backwards.

Up against the door where Crowley once had been, now there was an anthropomorphised fox. Aziraphale stared for a moment, blinked, and then huffed, “What  _ are _ you doing?”

“You don’t find me sexy?” Crowley adopted what was presumably a seductive pose, draped against the door.

Aziraphale took another step back and folded his arms across his chest. “If you would like to go and seduce Wisesnail, be my guest.”

“C’mon, I know you like this,” Crowley drawled, turning to swish his (admittedly quite fine and bushy) tail.

“ _ Thoughts are but dreams till their effects be tried _ ,” Aziraphale sighed.

Crowley flicked his tail once more, then turned to face him again, running his tongue over his pointed teeth.

“My dear,” said Aziraphale, exasperated, “I love you very much in all of your corporeal forms, but I am  _ not  _ going to make love to a cartoon fox.”

Crowley suddenly went very still. The smirk faded from his fox-face, leaving a comically dumbfounded expression. For a long while, they just stared at each other across the small room. Gradually, the awareness of what he had just said filtered into Aziraphale’s head.

_ Oh, botheration. Is the confusion for the declaration of love, or because I don’t want to have relations with a fox? If the former,  _ he  _ was the one who talked about confessing his hopeless love… if the latter, well... _

As Aziraphale was busy wringing his hands and panicking, he didn’t notice Crowley had transformed back into his human form until a whirlwind of black came flying at him and tackled him to the bed. Aziraphale’s cry of “Oh my!” was muffled by a forceful kiss.

It was becoming almost instinctive now, the way their lips and tongues slid together, the moans that started in one throat and ended in the other. There would probably come a day when Aziraphale became accustomed to kissing Crowley, but  _ it is not this day _ , Aziraphale thought. He wrapped his arms around Crowley’s waist and pulled him closer. Crowley’s snake hips undulated against him, and Aziraphale could feel the evidence of a pleasing Effort against his thigh.

With a great (small-‘e’) effort, Aziraphale broke off the kiss. While Crowley turned his attention to Aziraphale’s jaw, and then his throat, he gasped, “My dear, you are wearing  _ entirely _ too many clothes.”

In an instant, he found himself covered by a writhing, entirely naked, demon. He playfully slapped the demonic rear. “Now that’s cheating,” he grumbled. “How am I supposed to unwrap you if you just –“

With a frustrated groan, Crowley rolled over to lie on his back beside Aziraphale, fully clothed once again. “C’mon then,” he said. “Unwrap.”

Aziraphale raised himself onto one elbow and looked down at Crowley, delightfully rumpled where he lay sprawled on the bed. Laid out like this, he looked like a buffet for Aziraphale’s exclusive enjoyment. And he intended to enjoy him, thoroughly. He reached over to run his fingers through Crowley’s hair, brushing it up away from his forehead, then ran light fingertips down the side of his face, his neck. He could feel Crowley trembling faintly as he reached for the top button of his shirt.

“Oh, dearest,” Aziraphale sighed, “you are so –“

The form on the bed abruptly shifted and morphed, and Aziraphale found himself – to his absolute horror – looking down at a very passable imitation of Gabriel.

“ _ Crowley _ ,” he snapped. “That really is beyond the – what on  _ Earth _ has got into you?”

“Get on with it, sunshine,” Crowley drawled in a horrible parody of Gabriel’s voice. “Don’t you want to fuck the Archangel Fucking Gabriel?”

“ _ No _ . Not even a little bit. Please,  _ please _ change back.”

Crowley did, but Aziraphale found that his lust had thoroughly subsided, along with his Effort. He sat up on the edge of the bed, Crowley still sprawled beside him.

“If you don’t want to have sex,” Aziraphale said, “I can leave you to your sleep.”

“What? I thought we were ‘entertaining each other’?”

“Is this entertaining to you?” said Aziraphale, in a clipped tone.

“Extremely,” said Crowley, apparently oblivious. “I’m  _ hilarious _ .”

“Well,  _ I  _ am not amused,” Aziraphale grumbled.

“Ugh, fine,” Crowley sighed. “We could go and get it on in the back of the Bentley again… except, no, we can’t because you made me leave it in bloody Tadfield…”

“We have a perfectly functional bed,” said Aziraphale.

“All right.” Crowley launched himself up off the bed and moved to stand in front of Aziraphale. “What do you want? I could suck you off again? You liked that, earlier…”

“Yes, I did,” Aziraphale agreed. He ran his hands up Crowley’s long legs and over his narrow hips. “But we have all night…”

“Uuuh…” Crowley staggered backwards half a step before seeming to consciously stop himself. “Not  _ all _ night. Need my beauty sleep, y’know…”

Crowley didn’t  _ need _ to sleep at all, but Aziraphale was not about to argue. He idly ran his hands up Crowley’s sides, lifting his shirt just enough that he could lean forwards and place a kiss against the warm skin of his stomach. “If you’d rather sleep…” he began.

“It’s not that I’d  _ rather _ sleep...” Crowley said.

Aziraphale leaned back enough to look up at Crowley’s face. He looked as though he were waging an internal battle. Aziraphale forced down his own impatience, determined to give Crowley the space to decide whether to talk to him, but it was difficult. He took Crowley’s hands in his and prompted, “What do you want?”

“I already offered to suck you off…” He trailed off at Aziraphale’s exasperated look and sighed. “ _ Fine _ . I want it fast. Quick orgasm, no…  _ dallying…  _ and then I can sleep and you can read your book.”

“All right,” said Aziraphale, forcing his tone to be even.  _ So much for savouring our last night here. So much for “I love you, too”.  _ Despite the burgeoning heartbreak Aziraphale was feeling, he was loathe to give up on what might be their last opportunity to be truly intimate. “You can miracle off your clothes then, if you prefer. I’m sorry for… dallying…”

He let go of Crowley’s hand and moved to undo his own bow tie, but Crowley stopped him. Aziraphale went still, waiting for Crowley to show him what he wanted, but, for a moment, Crowley didn’t move. Then, slowly, he tugged at one end of Aziraphale’s bow tie, loosening it. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Now  _ you’re _ dallying.” Aziraphale couldn’t help himself.

Crowley took a step back and rubbed his hands over his face.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, hurriedly. “Carry on. Please.”

Crowley sat beside him on the bed, staring blankly ahead at the magnolia-painted wall.

“Can we talk about it?” Aziraphale ventured.

Crowley took a deep breath. “It’s just… a  _ lot _ .”

“I know, dear.” Aziraphale said.

Crowley didn’t take his eyes off the bland wall. “It went better when it was just…”

“A  _ quickie _ ?” Aziraphale supplied. They’d managed two of those today, although their morning indulgence had been quite splendid too, until –

_ Oh _ .

“Is this…” Aziraphale fumbled for the words. “Is this about the... snaking?”  _ Please let this be about the snaking, and not about the declaration of love... _

Crowley went preternaturally still, which was as good as a yes. “I see,” said Aziraphale, breathing a sigh of relief. “Not intentional, then?”

Still staring straight ahead, Crowley shook his head.

“Well, then.” Aziraphale clasped his hands in his lap. Six thousand years in this world had somehow left him without much practice in the realm of difficult conversations; they were generally avoidable when one could simply miracle a problem away. Determined to try, he ventured, “Was there something… wrong with what we were doing?”

That got Crowley to look at him, just a quick whip of the head, before he turned away again. “What do you mean wrong?”

“I mean, well… I must say, it all felt rather good to me, but if it wasn’t working for you, there are many other things we can try…”

“Wasn’t working?” Crowley turned to look at him again, but his expression was unreadable.

“Well,” Aziraphale floundered, “I mean, was it... bad?”

“For Heaven’s sake, Aziraphale - argh,” Crowley made a face. “For  _ Someone’s _ sake. No, it wasn’t  _ bad _ . It was fine.”

“Fine,” Aziraphale repeated, flatly.

“It was great. Amazing. Bloody  _ transcendent _ . Most intense fucking orgasm of my life. Got carried away, lost my grip on this,” he made a gesture that encompassed his human form.

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “Is that all?”

“Is that  _ all _ ?” Crowley repeated, incredulously.

“I was worried you hadn’t enjoyed yourself,” said Aziraphale, hastily. “If you did, then that’s really quite splendid. I was rather hoping we could do that again some time, you see.”

“But you didn’t have a good time,” Crowley protested, looking back at the wall.

“I most certainly did,” Aziraphale said, with some indignatio

“You didn’t…” Crowley made a vague gesture with one hand.

“Climax?” Aziraphale offered. “No, not quite, but I was rather enjoying myself, I assure you. And you  _ more  _ than made up for that this afternoon… I have to say, I’ve written that scenario, of course, but I’d never been sure that you would allow intimate relations in your car.”

“I don’t.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale aimed a knowing grin at him, “I’m just that irresistible, am I?”

“Smug bastard.”

“Quite so.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, only inches apart, but with what felt like a gulf separating them. Aziraphale longed to reach over and place a reassuring hand on Crowley’s knee, but he felt unsure. All of his doubts about what this really meant, and about  _ after _ , came racing back:  _ Crowley didn’t say I love you, too.. _ . One thing he  _ was  _ certain of was that he did want to make Crowley feel wanted. If making Crowley feel more comfortable with his serpentine form was on the cards for this evening, Aziraphale was going to make sure that he was available. If that had the added benefit of making Crowley want to keep seeing Aziraphale - in  _ any _ of his corporeal forms - after this weekend, well, then, that was a bonus. Maybe - one day - he would get his “I love you, too”...

If only Crowley had been human, Aziraphale would be able to sense and even influence his thoughts; alas, he had gone and fallen in love with a demon. That brought with it certain advantages - instantaneously clean sheets, for one - but also meant he was forced to tackle issues like these ones the slow, human way.

“It didn’t bother me in the slightest,” Aziraphale said, when the silence had stretched too thin. “If that concerns you, I mean.”

Crowley turned to face him, a sceptical eyebrow raised. “Didn’t bother you?”

“In fact, even less so now that I know it was because you were… enjoying yourself, so to speak. And - gracious, you’ve read my work - I’m far from… averse to your serpentine form…”

“So you’ll fuck a snake, but you draw the line at a fox.”

“There’s no need to be crude about it,” Aziraphale tutted. “And no, not ‘a snake.’  _ You _ . That was the first form I ever saw you in, you know.”

Something in the set of Crowley’s shoulders relaxed. “I remember.”

Feeling on safer ground now, Aziraphale shuffled slightly closer. He paused, giving Crowley a chance to pull away. When he didn’t move, Aziraphale slowly ran one hand up his spine, caressing his neck, and then threading fingers into his hair. Gently, he guided Crowley’s head around to face him, and then he waited, not quite daring to breathe.

He felt engulfed by relief when Crowley was the one to lean in and kiss him. It was only a tentative brush of lips at first, as though it were their first time, but then Crowley’s hands were on his back and in his hair, holding him steady while he deepened the kiss and licked into Aziraphale’s mouth. He sank down onto the bed, Crowley looming over him and finally swinging a leg over to straddle him. His kisses became deeper and more frantic, and once more, Aziraphale felt a hard length against his thigh.

_ Please don’t turn into Hastur _ , Aziraphale willed silently.  _ Or anyone from the Disney canon _ …

Crowley remained wonderfully Crowley-shaped, though, as Aziraphale slid his hands under his shirt and caressed the warm skin of his back. When Crowley broke off the kiss, it was only to lift himself up so that Aziraphale could reach the buttons of his shirt. While Aziraphale worked his way through undoing the buttons - a laborious process when one insisted on pausing to touch each new expanse of skin as it was revealed - Crowley watched, the slightest smile threatening at the corners of his mouth.

When Crowley shrugged off the shirt, tossing it casually aside with his trademark necktie, Aziraphale let out a pleased hum and spread his hands over Crowley’s chest. He wanted to savour this, the fact that he was finally allowed to do this, and that it might be their last time, but impatience drove his hands down to fumble with the snake belt. Crowley helped him loosen it, but then took his hands away to let Aziraphale open the fly of his preposterously tight jeans. It took a fair bit of shuffling - and a demonic miracle or two - to get them down over Crowley’s hips, but, once they were bunched around his thighs, Aziraphale palmed at the visibly tented underwear.

“I do like the red silk,” he said. “Most decadent.”

“They’re new,” Crowley said, in the same casual tone he might have used to discuss shoes. “Got the idea while doing some colouring…”

Aziraphale chuckled and shuffled down the bed until he could lean up and mouth at the outline of Crowley’s cock through said underwear, while his hands clutched at the silk-clad arse.

“Ngk,” said Crowley.

“Mmm,” Aziraphale agreed. He tugged the underwear down - more gently than he had the night before ( _ I’m learning _ !) - and closed his lips around the head of Crowley’s cock.

Crowley’s hips jerked just a little as he visibly resisted the urge to thrust. Hands gripping his arse, Aziraphale guided him forwards, slowly, until the entire length was buried in his mouth. Crowley shuddered.

Aziraphale released his cock and patted his still-clothed lower leg. “Do be a dear and take these off,” he said, brightly.

Crowley stood to kick off his shoes and socks and the remainder of his clothes, and Aziraphale took the opportunity to rearrange himself against the pillows at the top of the bed. Then, an entirely naked (and presumably less worried) Crowley crawled over him and pinned him down to kiss him.

Aziraphale lost himself in the kiss, taking advantage of the wide expanse of naked skin for his hands to roam over: his back, his hips, his quite lovely arse…

While Crowley worked his way down Aziraphale’s neck, the angel sighed contentedly. “You know, this is every bit as wonderful as I always imagined it might be.”

Crowley paused. “Spent a lot of time fantasising about being held down on a bed by a naked, horny demon, have you?”

“By a  _ specific _ naked, err...  _ horny  _ demon, why yes, actually!” Aziraphale smiled and sat up, pulling Crowley into his lap to kiss him some more.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said in a warning tone, pulling away, “ _ you _ are now wearing  _ far _ too many clothes.”

“Hmm. Why yes, I suppose I am.” Aziraphale rolled them over, a manoeuvre that he was quite sure would have worked flawlessly if not for the small double beds in the Lane End Conference Centre. As it was, it required a discreet miracle to keep them from collapsing in a heap on the floor, and, after flailing precariously on the edge of the bed, an awkward shuffle back into the middle of the bed. Aziraphale was left feeling quite the opposite of suave and sophisticated, and Crowley was laughing.

It was an improvement over sulking, he supposed, but still not quite what he was looking for.  _ What I’m  _ really _ looking for is my love to be reciprocated,  _ Aziraphale thought,  _ but  _ (pushing that thought to the back of his mind)  _ for right now, I will take both memory making and an extraordinarily tempting demon.  _ He scrambled to a standing position, leaving Crowley sprawled naked on the bed, laughter fading into a confused frown.

Aziraphale set to work undressing efficiently. First his bow tie, then his waistcoat, were set aside, neatly folded. He hesitated a little over his shirt, suddenly conscious of the serpentine yellow eyes watching him with unblinking intensity. Crowley had lifted himself onto his elbows and was biting his lip, evidently enjoying the show. His cock, lying hard against his belly, twitched a little. Aziraphale took a deep breath and worked quickly through his shirt buttons. He folded it and added it to the pile without looking up at Crowley, and then kicked off his shoes. He dispensed with his trousers and underwear in one swift movement, and an erect cock bounced free, pointing lewdly towards the bed.

“Wait,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale looked up, pausing in the process of unfastening his sock suspenders. Crowley was was watching him with wide eyes, yellow all the way to the corners. Slowly, deliberately, Crowley licked his lips. “Leave those on.”

Aziraphale looked down at his tartan socks, then back up at Crowley, who looked positively hungry. “Are you sure? Leaving socks on during… well, isn’t that rather gauche?”

“I like them.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale stood straight, feeling hesitant and a little, well, daft in only his socks with his cock jutting out in front of him. “If you’re sure…”

“C’mere.” Crowley held his arms outstretched.

Aziraphale knelt on the edge of the bed and crawled towards him. Crowley gathered him into his arms and pulled him down into a deep kiss. Aziraphale felt the tension drain from him as he sank into it.

Had it really been little more than a day since they had kissed for the first time? It felt as though this was something they had  _ always _ done. He knew the taste of wine on Crowley’s tongue, knew the soft sounds that came from the back of his throat when he was truly enjoying it. He knew that, if he trailed kisses along Crowley’s jaw, he would tilt his head up, guiding Aziraphale to his throat, and then he would arch his back and sigh…

Aziraphale knew all of these things now, and he could never unknow them. If this was to be it, just an anomalous weekend in a Buckinghamshire conference centre, he would have to go through eternity with this memory burned into his mind, never to be repeated. He couldn’t believe that he had thought a day would  _ ever _ come when he would become accustomed to this! Oh well, the only thing he could do right now was to ensure that at least it would be the best memory it possibly could be. He would make the most of this, and give himself fuel for an eternity of fantasies.

With renewed determination, Aziraphale dedicated himself to his task. He licked at the hollow of Crowley’s throat and committed every moan and sigh to memory. Kissing along Crowley’s collarbone, he hesitated just a little, but no fine, bushy tail appeared on the body beneath him. He shifted down the bed, trailing lips and tongue lower, and Crowley’s hands grasped at his hair.

“Angel,” Crowley gasped.

“Mmm?” Aziraphale looked up, but didn’t release the nipple he held between his lips.

“D’you think we could try it the other way around this time?”

Aziraphale gave the nipple a lick and lifted his head. “You want to swap places?”

“No, I mean… the other way around from this morning? Just think it might be… safer, y’know?”

“You would like me to... penetrate you?”

Crowley nodded. He bit his lip, as though nervous to have asked.

Aziraphale had fully planned on burying his cock in Crowley’s arse at some point during this evening’s proceedings, but he pretended to give the idea consideration. He moved over to the other nipple and gave it a slow lick. “Hmm,” he said at last. “I believe that can be arranged.”

“You’re a bastard,” said Crowley.

“Very much so,” Aziraphale agreed.

Aziraphale worked his way further down, over bony ribs, flat stomach and narrow, wriggling hips, to the soft skin of Crowley’s inner thigh. When he grazed his teeth over the skin there, Crowley made a keening sound and spread his legs wider. His hands clenched into fists in Aziraphale’s hair. Aziraphale licked a path up, tickling the spot just behind Crowley’s balls with his tongue, then took them into his mouth. Crowley gasped and arched his back. Above him, Aziraphale could see Crowley’s cock twitch. He released Crowley’s balls with an indecent  _ pop _ and licked a firm trail from the base to the tip of Crowley’s cock, then took the head between his lips and sucked. There was a salty flavour on the tip, and he chased it into the slit with his tongue.

“Hngh,” Crowley cried. “Ah, you’re going to discorporate me...”

Aziraphale took the entire length into his mouth and hummed in appreciation. Then, he lifted his head and smiled as Crowley’s cock, shiny with his saliva, bobbed in front of him. “Oh, I do hope not,” he said. “I am rather fond of this body, you know.”

As though to prove his point, he moved further down, licking at the sensitive skin behind Crowley’s balls. Crowley obligingly raised his knees to his chest and Aziraphale’s tongue found the small pucker of his arsehole. He licked it more gently than he had earlier, but every bit as thoroughly. Mentally, he catalogued every strangled sound Crowley made, the way he thrashed his head back and forth, the way he alternately let go of Aziraphale’s hair to grab fistfulls of the duvet, then buried his hands back in Aziraphale’s curls.

When Aziraphale breached the tight ring of muscle with his tongue, he was struck first by how incredibly  _ tight _ it was, and then by the way it made Crowley whimper. He would never be able to listen to Crowley’s nonchalant bluster again without remembering the helpless sound he made when there was a tongue in his arse…

_ I am not thinking about when this is over _ , Aziraphale scolded himself. He thrust his tongue back and forth, fucking Crowley open. He could feel every twitch of the muscle around him. Crowley arched into his face, sighing Aziraphale’s name.

Aziraphale’s cock made its own needs known just then, with a twitch of urgency. He withdrew his tongue and replaced it with a finger. It was a tight fit, and took a few pushes to get it all the way in. Crowley grunted, and Aziraphale belatedly miracled up some lubricant to ease the way.

Oh, that was  _ much  _ better; his finger slid back and forth easily now. He curled his finger, searching for the right spot, and knew he’d found it when Crowley let out a moan and began to move his hips, fucking himself on Aziraphale’s finger. He wedged in a second beside the first, watching Crowley carefully for any signs of discomfort. Crowley seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself, though. Encouraged, Aziraphale scissored his fingers and thrust them in and out together. Watching the two digits buried in Crowley’s body reminded him of something…

“Snakes have two penises, you know,” Aziraphale said, conversationally.

“‘M aware,” Crowley mumbled.

“Yes, of course, you know that.” Aziraphale scissored his fingers again. “ _ Hemipenes _ .”

“Ngk,” said Crowley.

“Though I must say, I am  _ extremely _ fond of this,” Aziraphale said, grasping Crowley’s single, human-shaped cock with his free hand. He lifted it from where it lay against Crowley’s belly and leaned to lick up the string of pearlescent precome that stretched from the tip. “Mmm,” he sucked at the head again, “very nice indeed…”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley growled in a warning tone, “are you here to torment me or to fuck me?”

“Why, both, of course…”

Crowley made a frustrated sound and clenched around Aziraphale’s fingers. Aziraphale watched them slide in and out a few more times, then glanced down at his cock, bobbing heavily between his thighs. His girth was not inconsiderable - certainly more than that of two fingers - and it made him slightly nervous.

“Dearest,” said Aziraphale, now serious, “do you promise you’ll tell me if I hurt you?”

“Yes,” Crowley groaned. “Just, please, get on with it.”

“Very well,” Aziraphale said, warily. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold out, in any case. He rose to his knees and crawled up the bed until he could look Crowley in the eye. “Are you sure?”

Crowley glared at him with all the menace of his demonic self. “ _ Yes _ .” He reached around to grab Aziraphale’s arse, tugging him down. Their cocks slid together; a jolt of pleasure surged through Aziraphale’s body.

“Would it be easier if I turned over?” Crowley suggested.

Aziraphale shook his head. “I want to see you.” He gave a timid smile. “I really do like your eyes, you know.”

Crowley made a face at him, dismissing the compliment. Aziraphale kissed the tip of his nose, then, taking a deep, shaky breath, he lifted himself back up on his knees, reached down and guided his cock towards Crowley’s arsehole. He discreetly miracled up more lubricant, covering himself and the opening of Crowley’s arse. Gently, he pushed forward. There was some resistance, and then, all of a sudden, the head of his cock slipped inside. He collapsed against Crowley’s chest, gasping for breath.

Crowley ran his hands up and down Aziraphale’s back. “Feels all right, doesn’t it?” he said, with a smirk.

Aziraphale nodded dumbly, trembling. Crowley’s hands grasped his arse and pulled, coaxing him in further. With great exertion, Aziraphale managed a few short, sharp thrusts, each one seating himself deeper, until he was entirely buried. He lay still for a moment, taking it in; he was  _ never  _ going to forget this feeling. It was intense, somehow more intimate than the time that he had occupied Crowley’s whole body.

“Hey,” Crowley prompted. “Pillow Principality…”

With a grunt of irritation, Aziraphale lifted himself up on his hands and knees, sliding almost all the way out. Crowley was smirking up at him again. Aziraphale thrust back in, hard, and that smirk melted into a self-satisfied grin. Encouraged, Aziraphale repeated the motion again and again, settling into a regular rhythm. On each thrust, a tingling feeling charged out from the pit of his stomach into his fingertips and toes, and he could feel the urgency building. He wasn’t going to last long, but he was determined not to ruin this with thoughts of Gabriel, of Hastur, or of anything else that might ensure he lasted (much) longer. He focused instead on Crowley, on the irregular hitch in his breathing, the red flush that spread across his chest. Aziraphale reached for his cock, but Crowley batted his hand away.

“Want you to come first,” Crowley said.

_ That  _ was not going to be a problem. A few thrusts more and the pleasure building in Aziraphale’s belly crested and he came, convulsing and gasping Crowley’s name.

When he came back to himself, a warm feeling was spreading through him. He felt languid, as though he were lying in a warm bath at the end of a long day. He blinked and looked down at Crowley, who was gazing with an expression of wonder over Aziraphale’s right shoulder. Aziraphale followed his gaze and saw his white wings stretched out from his back.

_ Oh _ . Well, no wonder he felt so relaxed; it was always a relief to be able to release his wings. He flexed them a little, enjoying the tingling sensation that chased down his spine.

He started to fold them away, but Crowley said, “Leave them out.”

Aziraphale gave him a questioning look.

“Do you think you can keep going?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale looked down to where their bodies were still joined. His cock was softening now, but a quick miracle had him fully hard again. He thrust all the way in. “Like this?”

“Yeah,” Crowley sighed.

“May I touch you now?”

Crowley nodded, and Aziraphale took him in hand. He began to move his hips in long, languid thrusts.

“Faster,” demanded Crowley.

Aziraphale obligingly picked up the pace, moving his hand in time with his rapidly moving hips, stretching his wings out for balance as he moved faster and faster.

Sated himself for the time being, he could pay more attention to Crowley now. His eyes were open and a deep golden colour as they moved between Aziraphale’s face and his vast outstretched wings. There were more details to catalogue: the way he bit his lip and tossed his head from side to side, the way he squirmed, his hips wriggling just as they did when he walked. Aziraphale would be reminded of this now every time he watched Crowley  _ sashay… _

Aziraphale looked down to where his cock was disappearing, over and over again, into Crowley’s body. The memory of that sight would keep him going for a long time… As would the weight of Crowley’s hard cock in his hand. He wished he could feel it in his mouth again, but that was a contortion even a miracle couldn’t manage.  _ Maybe afterwards, if he lets me stay… _

Aziraphale was so lost in his thoughts that Crowley’s orgasm took him by surprise; he was suddenly aware of Crowley tensing with a cry that could have been “ _ Angel _ !” and then the pale skin beneath him faded into black. Aziraphale found himself kneeling over a large black and red serpent. He gave a wry smile. “The other way round didn’t make any difference, then?” he said, with a smile.

The snake on the bed seemed to glare at him, and then buried his head under the pillow.

“Oh, don’t do that,” Aziraphale sighed. He crawled to the top of the bed and lay back on the pillow beside Crowley, wincing when he realised he was in the wet spot. With a quick miracle, he cleaned the sheets and themselves, and then gathered Crowley in his arms and hauled him over to lie on his chest.

Crowley looked at him, managing somehow to look both embarrassed  _ and  _ petulant.

Aziraphale leaned down to kiss the tip of his nose. “Yes, I know,” he consoled. “But you really are quite lovely like this, you know. Same eyes.” He placed a kiss in between them.

Crowley tilted his head in what Aziraphale chose to interpret as a quizzical expression. “Yes,  _ lovely _ ,” he reiterated. He ran his hands over Crowley’s back, marvelling at the iridescent scales. Crowley’s body undulated under the touch. Crowley tucked his head under Aziraphale’s chin and Aziraphale felt him relax. He was heavy, a comforting weight on Aziraphale’s naked body.

Aziraphale stroked him gently. “If you want to go to sleep, shall we get under the covers?”

Crowley hissed in protest, but moved off him while he climbed off the bed and turned the duvet down. While he was up, he moved his phone to within arm’s reach in case Crowley did sleep through the rest of the night. When he climbed back in, he lay on his side, facing Crowley, who was watching him intently. Aziraphale reached over and stroked under his chin; Crowley moved, diving under Aziraphale’s neck and around him. Aziraphale tried to shift to accommodate him, and, before long, found himself entwined in Crowley’s coils.

Crowley’s head emerged from under the duvet and nudged under Aziraphale’s chin. Aziraphale held him close and felt Crowley constrict around him and then relax. Aziraphale kissed the top of his head and sighed contentedly. “Good night, my dear,” he said, and he clicked his fingers to turn off the lights.

The dark was much more conducive to potentially awkward conversations. Stroking Crowley’s back, Aziraphale said, “That really was quite extraordinarily wonderful, you know. Thank you.” He kissed whatever part of Crowley he could reach; it felt like the edge of his snout.

He could feel Crowley’s coils shift and move around him. It was an odd sensation, but not at all unpleasant. Then the tip of Crowley’s tail flicked against his cock, still miraculously hard, and he jolted. “Ah, sorry my dear,” he muttered, “just let me deal with that…”

Crowley hissed at him, and his tail moved over Aziraphale’s cock again, more deliberately this time. It felt… quite nice. Without thinking, Aziraphale found himself gently rocking his hips. Crowley’s tail curled around his cock and squeezed. “Oh,” Aziraphale gasped, “ _ Crowley _ …”

Apparently encouraged, Crowley’s head moved out from beneath Aziraphale’s chin and dived underneath the covers. Aziraphale felt the flicker of a serpentine tongue against the head of his cock. He held his breath, nervous but excited. It was a distinctly new sensation, having his cock gripped by a snake, quite unlike the tight clench of an arse. He was disappointed when he felt the coils loosen and the tail retreat between his legs, but then the tongue was back, and he felt his cock being drawn into the snake’s jaws.

“Oh!” he cried. “Oh, do mind your fangs, dear…” He couldn’t feel them, though; perhaps Crowley had thoughtfully miracled them away for the occasion. He giggled. He couldn’t quite believe what may or may not be happening, but, on his quest to make memories, he wasn’t about to turn down a unique opportunity...

Aziraphale couldn’t manage any more coherent thoughts thereafter, because he could feel Crowley’s throat ripple and convulse around him, as though he was swallowing prey, and it felt quite divine. He tried to articulate that, that he really was, deeply, truly, happy with this situation, but all that emerged were garbled syllables. He assumed that Crowley understood his point... _ Ngk. _

Somewhere amid the rush of sensation, Aziraphale became aware that Crowley’s tail was sliding between his arse cheeks. He spread his legs, encouraging, and gasped when he felt something press against his arsehole.  _ Hemipenes, _ he thought dimly. He spread his legs wider and murmured, “Oh please, dearest…”

The cool sensation of miracled lubricant spread over his arse (“Oh, thank you, my dear! How thoughtful!”) and he shivered. That became a shudder as he felt a hemipenis slip inside him. He moaned aloud and pushed back, then forward, into Crowley’s mouth. The dual sensations crashed into each other and tore another guttural moan from him. He rocked his hips back and forth with a whimper. Aziraphale reached behind himself to hold Crowley steady while he fucked himself on him. He could feel the other hemipenis down there; it didn’t feel so dreadfully large, so perhaps it would be possible to… He pushed it inside himself, alongside the first. Now  _ that _ felt exquisite.

Eagerly rocking back and forth, Aziraphale realised Crowley was doing exactly what he had silently lamented  _ not _ being able to do to Crowley… Hopefully, this would serve to convince Crowley that this spontaneous shapeshifting was not a curse, but a blessing. The heat was rising in Aziraphale’s body again, and his movements became increasingly erratic. There was a loop of Crowley’s coils over Aziraphale’s shoulder; he clutched it close to him and stretched out his wings as his climax overtook him.

For a while afterwards, he lay there, still shuddering, overcome by the rush of sensations and still occasionally convulsing, as Crowley slithered and rearranged himself around him. When Crowley’s head tucked back into place under his chin, Aziraphale let out a deep, shuddering breath and kissed the top of his head. “Well, my dear. As  _ you  _ might say, that was... a thing.”


	16. The Last Day

Grey. Aziraphale had been awake for most of the night, as was his way, and so had seen first light. It was grey. It was seeping in through the ill-fitting curtains, accompanied by the faint pitter-patter of rain, making getting out of bed even less appealing.

Whilst Crowley slept, Aziraphale had re-read their Twitter messages from their first encounter, which seemed like both aeons ago and only yesterday. A soft smile played on Aziraphale’s face as he remembered LoverBoy’s “They’re in the bookshop, after dinner at the Ritz.” ‘Fanon’, indeed, but the mention of it, now he was abundantly clear who it was that was mentioning it, gave him hope. Crowley and he, harbouring the same thoughts at the same time, never  _ quite _ enough bottles of Chateauneuf du Pape between them to confess to each other…

If it had been like that in the past, the future could be  _ truly _ first-rate.

Aziraphale looked up from his phone. At some point in the night, Crowley had transformed back into his human form. Aziraphale had regrettably missed the transformation; had he perhaps dozed off for a while? Crowley was truly embedding terrible habits in him. Still, even out of his snake form, Crowley was managing to coil around him in a distinctly serpentine fashion that made for a pleasing barrier against the chill of the grey October morning.

Aziraphale switched to the browser on his phone and scrolled through his bookmarks to open up AO3. He found LoverBoy’s - Crowley’s - author page and scrolled through the summaries.

So many of his fantasies were laid out here. Not the sexual ones; these were far more secret. Dinners, picnics, romantic evenings watching meteor showers… Aziraphale stopped scrolling when he reached one of the South Downs cottage fics. It was a trope he enjoyed, though he had no idea where it had originated, and Crowley had a particular way of writing blissful domesticity that made Aziraphale ache. He read the story with a hopeless smile spreading across his face at the description of the lovingly tended garden, the thrill Crowley took in Aziraphale’s enjoyment of his work, and the casual, tender touches between them that spoke of a long, committed relationship. He sighed. In fanfiction, he never annoyed Crowley by leaving forgotten mugs of cocoa all over the house, or taking up too much space with his bookshelves, or refusing to go to bed because he was in the middle of an exciting chapter...

He gathered the still-sleeping Crowley up into a warm cuddle, willing the day to stop right there. Aziraphale was surprised at the depth and variety of his feelings, but, as he had learned from the Aziraphale of Many Costumes, ‘con drop’ was real. He could feel that he was still surrounded by so much love, radiating from the newfound friends - and yet, there was a palpable sadness in the air this morning. 

It seemed unlikely that it came from Crowley; after all, he had gone to sleep  _ particularly  _ pleased with himself.  _ Crowley isn’t exactly the sort to wake you in the middle of the night and say, “I have a worry”, though... _ thought Aziraphale. He had tried exceptionally hard to not say “I love you” as Crowley settled down to sleep, not least because it would be very difficult for Snake Crowley to convey the sentiment adequately ( _ particularly when Human Crowley didn’t… _ ). I  _ am sad, _ mused Aziraphale.  _ Goodbyes are so hard... _

Outside their room, low voices and the clatter of suitcases could be heard. Aziraphale pulled the covers up to his head, hoping beyond hope that divine intervention would strike and they could all just have one more day together. It wasn’t like High Wycombe was the height of luxury (the fact that the tea was passable was its only redeeming feature), but he would gladly have moved everyone into the Lane End Conference Centre forever, if they wished it.

Aziraphale had had few human friends - indeed, few  _ friends _ , other than Crowley. Arrangements, even something close to friendship (he must remember to send an anniversary card to the Pulsifer-Devices), but no humans that he felt quite so connected to as this group. He knew others felt the same; a lady with hair the colour of a mermaid’s tail, for example, was just as upset as he was, he feared, about their imminent departure. He was unsure of the social contracts about keeping in touch; it was hardly like a 6,000 year, secret friendship based on mutual longing was the standard fare. Exchange social media names? Numbers? Become pen pals?  _ How does one even ask that question _ ? Aziraphale wondered.

Crowley stirred. “Awake, angel?” he mumbled. 

“Always, dearest, you know me!” Aziraphale replied, his cheeriness not quite reaching his face.

Crowley looked up from where he had been tucked under Aziraphale’s arm.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing! Why would you assume something was wrong?”

Crowley clambered onto his elbows. “Well, your face is wet, for a start. Why is your face wet?”

Embarrassed, Aziraphale touched his cheek, simultaneously looking away from Crowley’s concerned gaze. 

“Well, it  _ is _ dusty in here, dear! Pay no attention to me; I think I am just a little sad that we are all going to have to get back to normal tomorrow, when this weekend has been…”

Aziraphale, for once, was lost for words. Nothing seemed to capture the feelings he had about the three days - was it really only three days? - that had been The Ineffable Con. He knew that he shouldn’t wish today away, that he should be better at ‘living in the moment’, or whatever newfangled idea the Sunday supplements were trying to promote, but he was  _ terrified _ . Aziraphale hadn’t quite realised exactly how lonely he had been, until he had had a friendship group. It might be  _ slightly  _ strange that the thing they all had in common was… well,  _ him _ , but he adored it. 

What would happen when a new television series came along?

Crowley was still staring. As he leaned towards Aziraphale for a kiss, Aziraphale turned away. 

“Well, no point wasting the morning in bed! Bags to pack, Bentleys to fetch, cooked breakfasts to eat!” He sounded forced, even to his own ears. 

“If you’re sure, angel…?” 

Aziraphale  _ was _ sure, but unsurprisingly, Crowley looked a little bewildered.  _ I can hardly blame him,  _ Aziraphale thought.  _ We have gone straight from serpentine seduction to sunup sadness. _

He shook his head, as if to clear his mind.

Aziraphale was going to have his breakfast, have a lovely day in London and say his goodbyes, before heading back to the bookshop. He would hope, beyond all hope, that Crowley would at least join him for a drink… or two… or ten. The only good part of being alone, if not, would be that no-one was there to embarrass him when his face was wet for days on end. And, he  _ did _ miss his books.  _ Yes, _ he thought.  _ If nothing else, just me, my books and my memories. I will always have those, and they have served me well so far. _

He smiled, and took Crowley’s hand. His treacherous brain reminded him of how fragile this situation was, how unusual… how special.

********

The noise in the dining room was more subdued than usual, and there were notably fewer people. Many had chosen their usual clothes, rather than costumes, presumably for travelling home. Those heading to London seemed buoyant, but quietly so; no-one wished to offend those that had to leave earlier. Aziraphale chose a seat at the end of one of the occupied tables, a little apart from one of the groups, before heading to peruse the prandial options. 

The breakfast had cooled since it was first served, and there was only a few withered sausages and some solidified egg to be had. Aziraphale waited, assuming that a new batch would be arriving any moment. And waited. And waited…

“Hey, angel!” Crowley called over. “Whatcha doing? The tea I made you is getting cold!”

The horror of forcing down another of Crowley’s milky teas gave Aziraphale the strength to wait just a  _ little  _ while longer. A member of the waiting staff came out, carrying a fresh tray of bacon. Things were looking up!

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale, with a smile he had practiced for speaking to Gabriel. “I’ll have a bacon and mushroom sandwich on white bread, please.” The smile, again.

“Sorry, but there’s no mushrooms left…” The waiter stared; he couldn’t possibly have known he was denying the Angel of the Eastern Gate his breakfast ( _ of course he couldn’t _ … Aziraphale winced as he was reminded of the ongoing deception) but he did look like he had had the fear of the Almighty put into him. 

“Why  _ wouldn’t  _ there be mushrooms?!” Aziraphale all-but-bellowed. It was not in his nature to be angry; irritated, yes, but outright angry? No, and certainly not over  _ mushrooms _ , of all things. 

“Calm down, angel, we’ll find some fungus for lunch if it means that much to you!” Crowley was immediately by his side. In a whisper, Crowley said, “This isn’t about the mushrooms - at least, I bloody hope it’s not, or you really have lost your mind. Sit down, drink your tea...” (Aziraphale winced) ...and tell me what’s going on.”

For the umpteenth time this weekend, Aziraphale was at a loss for words.  _ My, this ‘Con Drop’ really is quite something!  _ he thought. He catalogued his concerns, rattling them off for Crowley to hear: “Friends and futures and falsities and... _ O that way madness lies! _ ” Aziraphale finished with a flourish.

“You and your riddles, angel!” Crowley attempt at levity was lost on Aziraphale. 

“ _ Riddles? _ That is  _ Shakespeare,  _ I’ll have you know!  _ I’m  _ not the one…” Azirphale tailed off. Was the dining room  _ really  _ the place to discuss his concerns? In the hearing of the fast-approaching Registration Gabriel, good Heavens?

Aziraphale grumpily took his seat, Crowley dropping into the seat beside him with a somewhat wary expression. Across the table, War-Crowley had changed into a rather fetching Aziraphale, and was happily tucking into a large pile of mushrooms on toast with a gusto that implied she  _ knew  _ she had got the last helping. Aziraphale glared at her, but she didn’t seem to notice, too focused on her ill-gotten mushrooms.

“Coming to London today?” Anathemmawww asked brightly, apparently in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Aziraphale forced a smile. “Oh yes! I’m most excited to show you all around our usual haunts.”

“You haven’t even seen the show!” The formerly-pyjama-clad-demon-nun-guitarist-Beelzebub pointed out, looking distinctly unamused.

“True, true,” Aziraphale conceded, “but I was there for the actual events, of course!”

Registration Gabriel, who was just sitting down nearby, gave an exasperated sigh. “Still going with... this, then?” She gestured dismissively towards them. 

“Maybe he’s telling the truth,” the Mushroom Thief suggested.

The group laughed, and Aziraphale joined in weakly, but he was sure he saw Anathemmawww and Wisesnail exchange a meaningful look.

“C’mon angel,” said Crowley, with a firm glare that suggested they should extricate themselves from this conversation immediately. “We have to figure out how to get to Tadfield to pick up the Bentley…”

“Do you need a lift?” said Registration Gabriel.

Aziraphale went very still. He looked around the table, hoping for any alternative offer, but none was forthcoming. He was sure he heard the Mushroom Thief mutter something that sounded like “Bloody Gryffindor…”

“Uh, yeah,” said Crowley, before Aziraphale could stop him. “We do actually, if you don’t mind?”

“Chop chop, then.” Gabriel downed her tea and shooed them out of the dining room. “Where’s your luggage?”

“In the Bentley,” said Aziraphale, at the same time as Crowley said, “Don’t have any.”

Aziraphale gave a stiff smile and tried again. “We don’t have any  _ here _ because it’s in the Bentley.”

He waited for questions about why they had taken their luggage to Tadfield the night before when they had another night at Lane End, but Gabriel obviously didn’t particularly care. She directed them to her white Polo, and Aziraphale made a beeline for the back door, insisting to Crowley, “You need the legroom, dear.”

Aziraphale had to give Gabriel some credit; her driving was positively sedate compared to the speed demon he was accustomed to. Crowley seemed to be enjoying himself somewhat less, though, muttering, “You can do at  _ least _ 80 on this road…”

They hit a sizeable pothole, and Gabriel glared at Crowley. “You were saying?”

“Potholes wouldn’t  _ dare _ hurt my car,” Crowley grumbled.

Aziraphale would never admit as much out loud, but he did find himself almost wishing that Crowley were driving when Gabriel hesitated at a right-hand turn for so long he thought they might miss the entire London tour.

“It was very  _ nice  _ of you to include the car ride in the raffle,” said Gabriel, as they pulled into Tadfield.

Aziraphale braced himself for the stream of invective that inevitably resulted from anyone calling Crowley ‘nice’, but Crowley was apparently too stunned by hearing a compliment from Gabriel to react. He stuttered a bit, before settling on, “Uh, yeah, I think Diminutive Crowley enjoyed it…”

They turned into the car park of the Stag and Huntsman, and Crowley let out a sigh at the sight of his Bentley. “She’s still here!”

Gabriel launched into a much more on-brand tirade about how irresponsible Crowley had been for drinking when he should have been driving back to Lane End, and what would they have done if there hadn’t been enough bus space, and perhaps if they hadn’t drunk so much the bar wouldn’t have been in the  _ absolute state _ it had been...  _ We cleaned it up! _ Aziraphale thought indignantly, but didn’t dare to argue. Instead, he forced a smile, thanked Gabriel for the lift, and jumped out of the car as quickly as he could.

Before Gabriel drove away, she lowered her window and called over to them, “Do you think you could tone it down a bit today? People are sad to be leaving, and you two are  _ a lot _ .”

Aziraphale watched her drive away, a frown creasing his brow. “Whatever do you think she meant by that?” he wondered aloud.

“No idea,” said Crowley from somewhere behind him. Aziraphale turned to see he was caressing the Bentley, murmuring soothing words and apologising for leaving her alone. Aziraphale rolled his eyes. Thankfully too preoccupied to notice, Crowley said, “Get in, angel.”

It wasn’t until he was sitting in the passenger seat that Aziraphale was hit with a sudden, vivid memory of the last time they had been in this position. Only the night before last ( _ So recently, really? _ ) he had finally,  _ finally _ confessed centuries of pent-up feelings while sitting in this very seat…

“Angel? What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing, my dear,” Aziraphale waved away his foolishness. “Shall we to London?”

Crowley stubbornly didn’t start the engine. “Why do you look sad?”

“Goodness...” Aziraphale chuckled, “not sad at all, my dear. Actually I was just thinking of… the last time I was in this car. Silly and sentimental of me…”

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up so far, they almost joined his immaculately coiffed hair. He glanced over his shoulder at the back seat, and then turned a questioning glance on Aziraphale.

“Oh…” Aziraphale looked away, feeling a blush climb up his cheeks. “I meant… the last time I was in  _ this  _ seat. Strange to think, only two days ago I had never kissed you…”

“And now you’ve acted out your highest-kudos fic…” Aziraphale wasn’t looking at him, but he could  _ hear _ the smirk in Crowley’s voice.

“I might have to write a sequel,” Aziraphale said, as evenly as he could manage. “Now that I can describe exactly how it feels to have a snake -”

“Yes, all right,” Crowley cut him off. Aziraphale glanced over, and grinned as he saw that Crowley was blushing a shade to match his hair.

“Which of  _ your  _ fics should we act out first?” Aziraphale wondered aloud. “I re-read one of your South Downs cottaging fics last night…”

To his surprise, Crowley snorted with laughter. He had been teasing a little, but that was hardly the reaction he had expected for suggesting a romantic countryside escape! Despite his efforts to force them back, doubts began to seep back into his thoughts.

“Not the South Downs, then,” Aziraphale said, a little stiffly.

Crowley visibly forced himself to stop laughing. “No, angel… It’s just, that’s not what ‘cottaging’ means…” He collapsed in laughter again.

With an indignant huff, Aziraphale pulled out his phone and searched for ‘cottaging.’ Google brought up a definition from Wikipedia that made Aziraphale roll his eyes.

“Yes, well, make fun,” Aziraphale muttered, shoving his phone back into his pocket. “But where did the South Downs come from, anyway? Have we ever even been there?”

Crowley sobered and scrunched up his face in thought. “Probably?” he settled on. “Not together.” With an air of forced casualness, he added, “We could, if you like. Maybe go for a picnic?” He pronounced the word deliberately, as though he were vaguely mocking the idea, but Aziraphale caught the slightly hopeful dart of a glance towards him.

“We could,” Aziraphale agreed. “But where did the idea that we  _ retire _ there come from? I’ve seen it in so many fics…”

“Oh,” Crowley shrugged. “Pepper just made that up. Someone asked her at a convention, said the first thing that popped into her head. Out of nowhere. Uh, we’re going to be around humans all day... sure you don’t want to jump into the back seat for a bit before we go?” He waggled his eyebrows, now back to where they should be, suggestively.

Crowley was terrible at deflecting, but at least he wasn’t a fox this time. Clearly there was further exploration of the South Downs conversation ( _ of many recent conversations… _ ) to be had, but Aziraphale could let it go for now… in favour of more lascivious thoughts. “No need for that, my dear, although perhaps we could take a moment…”

He shifted over towards Crowley, and perhaps it  _ was  _ merely the excuse for a distraction, but Crowley enthusiastically seized the opportunity to lean over and kiss him. Aziraphale slid his arms around Crowley’s waist and pulled him close, letting out a pleased hum at the now-familiar feeling of their lips meeting. He ran his tongue over Crowley’s lips, which parted easily for him, and he felt Crowley’s fingers thread through his hair as the kiss deepened. Aziraphale held him close, running his hands up and down Crowley’s spine, and he was  _ just  _ thinking that perhaps the back seat wasn’t a terrible idea, when Crowley groaned and broke off the kiss.

“Gearstick,” Crowley mumbled, pulling away with a grimace.

“Oh,” Aziraphale winced. “Sorry. Carried away. Um, London, then?”

“I’m not finished,” said Crowley, in a low growl. He clambered awkwardly over the centre console, cursing when he hit his head on the ceiling and got his shoe caught on the seat, but, eventually, he was straddling Aziraphale’s lap. It was not a comfortable position; Crowley was tall and the ceiling was low, but that just meant they were pressed closer together. Aziraphale took full advantage, kissing and licking at the bared throat in front of him, while grasping Crowley’s arse with both hands. Crowley braced himself on the seat on either side of Aziraphale’s head while he arched his back with a pleased sigh.

Aziraphale’s mind was just drifting back towards the back seat when there was a sharp rap at the window.

They both froze. Crowley looked at him, and Aziraphale could  _ tell  _ he was toying with just how to miracle the intruder away.

“Just because the Tylers aren’t here anymore doesn’t mean the rest of us will put up with your shenanigans,” said a familiar voice from outside.

Crowley lowered the window, and Pepper glared at them, hands on her hips.

“Morning,” said Crowley, with an innocent smile.

Pepper pointedly glanced to where Aziraphale’s hands still clutched at the demon’s rear. Aziraphale guiltily dropped his hands; Pepper rolled her eyes.

“You two back to London today?” she asked.

“Yes, actually, we were just leaving,” said Aziraphale.

“Looks like it,” said Pepper with a smirk.

To Aziraphale’s dismay, Crowley began to climb back over to the driver’s seat. To hide his disappointment - and to distract from the cursing and flailing as Crowley retook his seat - Aziraphale smiled up at Pepper. “May I ask, my dear… what made you decide to write this story now? So many years after it happened?”

Pepper was not easily distracted - she was watching Crowley with an expression that mixed exasperation and disbelief - but she answered, “I did write a version soon afterwards. A screenplay.”

“Uuuuuugh,” said Crowley, now settling into the driver’s seat. “It was  _ awful _ . You worked at the  _ British Museum _ .”

“That doesn’t sound so terrible…”

“I owned a  _ nightclub _ . And she wanted me to be played by  _ Johnny Depp _ .”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale agreed, which seemed to be the appropriate reaction.

Pepper stuck her tongue out at them both. “Better than any screenplay  _ you’ve _ ever written,” she said. “And in my defence, I didn’t know  _ who _ the fuck you really were, and I was  _ twelve _ .”

“She showed it to me when she was drunk one night,” Crowley said. “So,  _ obviously _ , I had to tell her everything that was wrong with it…”

“And now, I’m rich,” Pepper grinned at them. “So... cheers for that!”

“Don’t you have better things to do than abuse your friends?” Crowley cut her off with a glare.

“Nope,” Pepper grinned. “Like I said,  _ rich _ . Lady of leisure, I am.”

“You won’t want to come with us, then, if you’re… leisuring.  _ We  _ have things to do,” Crowley grumbled, and started the Bentley’s engine.

Aziraphale wanted to ask more questions (particularly about where retiring to the South Downs had come from, as it wasn’t an unpleasant idea  _ at all _ ...), but Crowley was clearly in a hurry to remove them from the situation. “Lovely seeing you,” said Aziraphale instead. “I shall have  _ many _ more questions on Thursday, I’m sure…”

Before he could say a proper goodbye, Crowley had lurched the car into gear and was speeding them away, kicking up gravel from the pub’s car park in their wake.


	17. The Reveal

Sitting in the Bentley beside Crowley, fearing for his corporation, Aziraphale began to feel almost normal for the first time in three days.

“There could be cars coming the other way!” Aziraphale protested, as they sped along a single-track road.

“Not if they know what’s good for them,” Crowley said darkly.

“Let’s try some music…” Aziraphale muttered. Rooting through the glove compartment, he found a Mozart CD, which he declared “delightful!” even though he could have guessed before it happened that _ A Little Night Music _ would sound remarkably like Queen.

While Freddie Mercury belted about finding “Somebody to Love,” Aziraphale cast a glance over to the somebody he loved. Crowley was, thankfully, watching the road ahead, cursing the rogue pheasants’ lack of survival instincts - though miraculously managing not to hit any of them - while he swung the Bentley through the Buckinghamshire lanes.

Aziraphale waited until they were on the M40, where the risk of discorporation was mildly reduced, before he ventured, “Crowley?”

“Yeah?” Crowley idly miracled a slow Yaris out of the fast lane.

“I’ve been thinking…” Aziraphale turned the music down; the strains of _ Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy _ were entirely too distracting.

“A dangerous pastime,” said Crowley.

“I know.” Aziraphale folded his hands in his lap and sat up straight. “The thing is, I’ve never really had human friends before, and now that I do, well, I find I don’t enjoy lying to them.”

“What did you lie to them about?”

“Well, about us. Who, or rather _ what _ we are.”

Crowley gave a bark of laughter. “Sure, let’s tell them the truth, shall we?” In a mock obsequious tone, he added, “Excuse me, humans, but you know we are _ actually _ the celestial beings you’ve all been drawing and writing about?”

“Make fun,” Aziraphale grumbled, “but you don’t think they’re going to figure it out eventually?”

“They think we’re really into role play,” said Crowley. “Didn’t you look around? We didn’t even stand out; two thirds of the convention were dressed like us, including at _ least _ three other couples...”

Aziraphale wanted to keep arguing his point, but he was entirely distracted by Crowley’s reference to couples, and the implication that they themselves were a couple (_ and _ the reminder that they did _ not _ win the couples cosplay competition…). It was the perfect opening to ask if that was, in fact, the case, but perhaps that would be too forward? _ Can _ anything _ be too forward, after what we did last night? _ That train of thought led directly to a delightful reminiscence of what had transpired the previous night. He really would need to commit the details to a thoroughly explicit fic, to be read and reread whenever he needed a reminder…

“You’re fretting,” Crowley interrupted his thoughts.

“Just your driving, dear,” Aziraphale sighed. It wasn’t entirely a lie; the M40 had become the A40 and the way Crowley weaved in and out of the London traffic was quite terrifying. “It’s a miracle you haven’t discorporated us both, you know.”

“A miracle,” Crowley agreed wryly.

“It really would be most inconvenient, you know. Who knows if we’d ever be issued with new bodies; we might end up having to share with humans -”

“Well, that’d be one way to tell your new friends who we really are, wouldn’t it? ‘Hey Wisesnail, turns out I was a demon all along and I’m here to share your body…’”

“She would suit you,” said Aziraphale, although privately he thought Crowley could possess the Spanish Curly-Haired Crowley and Aziraphale would barely be able to tell the difference...

“Who would you be?” Crowley tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Ah! Registration Gabriel!”

Aziraphale paled as Crowley guffawed. Less pleasant memories of the previous night came flooding back, unbidden; if they were, indeed, a couple, one of their first house rules would be no-one will be turning into, or occupying, a Gabriel of any kind! 

********

The remainder of the journey passed in companionable silence, small talk about the convention peppering Crowley’s humming to the bebop. As they got closer to Central London and the city closed in around them, Aziraphale wondered, not for the first time, not for the hundredth time, what would come next. He was an angel that liked a plan; since giving away his flaming sword with only a thought for poor Eve and no long-term thinking about the trouble that it might bring, he always tried to consider everything from every angle.

Sitting in traffic, a small wager with himself about how long Crowley would put up with this before miracling them free (Crowley did so enjoy the faces of frustrated drivers, though!), he considered his two current conundrums: their… relationship and the deception of their newfound friends. The former, too large to think about in such close proximity to the conundrum himself. The latter… well, he knew that Crowley thought that he was being ridiculous, but how could he have everyone to the bookshop, or explain why they could meet at the Ritz whenever they wanted to, _ gratis _, without coming clean? 

Ways to explain away his extensive collection of first editions on a bookshop owner’s income, or why he had several bedrooms and yet no beds, were still running through Aziraphale’s mind as they pulled up to a ‘convenient’ space on Tavistock Square. Too distracted to ask exactly why they were there, Aziraphale was lost in his thoughts until the demon was peering back in through the driver’s side. 

“Coming, angel? They’ll be waiting!”

A glance in the rear view mirror corroborated that, indeed, the group had gathered in Tavistock Square and seemed to be making merry on one of the benches. Registration Gabriel was power-walking over to them, presumably to chide their lateness.

“Good…” she consulted her watch. “Afternoon. What took you so long? Never mind; you’re here now - people are keen to take your photos on the bench and we have a lunch reservation to keep!” She clapped her hands briskly. 

Aziraphale (as Crowley, it would seem) thought it wise not to disclose that their lateness had been caused by rather too much... canoodling in the car park in Tadfield. Aziraphale glowed at the memory, despite the presence of Gabriel; technically, _ technically _, the convention was now over, and Crowley still wanted to kiss him. There was hope… even if it was on a technicality.

Walking across the Square, enjoying the sounds of their new friends laughing and joking, Aziraphale was almost loathe to ask his current burning question, lest it break the mood. And yet… “Crowley, dear, why are we gathered at Tavistock Square? I have never been here… well, in 6,000 years!”

As Crowley turned his head to reply, Registration Gabriel whipped round from her march in front of them. 

“Right. I asked you nicely in Tadfield and now I’m _ telling _ you. Being in character is all very well and good during the convention, but now? Everyone is exhausted, despondent and trying their damndest to cling on to their last day. You have two options: be more genuine and cut the crap, or miracle us another convention that starts _ right now. _ ” Her last words were snarled out, eyes narrowed, body tense. Crowley, beside him, stiffened; _ memories of his time in Heaven, no doubt. _

Aziraphale reached out and took Crowley’s hand, squeezing gently. He glanced over, daring to take his eyes off Registration Gabriel, even though he was only partly convinced that she didn’t have the power to discorporate him on the spot. Crowley, barely perceptibly, shook his head. Aziraphale sighed.

Finally grasping her cryptic comment from this morning, Aziraphale replied. “You’re right, my… err… Gabriel. We shall do our best to _ tone it down _, as you suggested. Apologies, we meant no harm.” He held his hands out, as if to preemptively halt any incoming smiting.

Gabriel scowled. A parting shot: “Also, if you want to know why Tavistock Square, try _ actually watching the show _ before coming to a convention next time.” She rolled her eyes, before turning on her heels and continuing to stride towards the waiting group. 

Crowley waited until Gabriel was out of earshot before he leaned over to explain, quietly, “It was the stand-in for Berkeley Square.” He gestured towards the bench where Curly-Haired Crowley and the Mushroom Thief were currently acting out their body swap for the surrounding cameras.

As they headed in that direction, whoops and cheers greeted their arrival. Wisesnail had acquired the large plush snake from the convention, which was wrapped around her neck. She waved at him with the snake’s head; Aziraphale would never be able to explain why that made him blush...

Aziraphale snuck a glance at Registration Gabriel. She was watching the group from a distance and glowering at the pair on the bench, until, after a fashion, the Mushroom Thief rose and joined her. After the mushroom incident, Aziraphale wasn’t that sure he was too fond of _ either _ of them… it was a shame one of them was co-chairing the convention and the other seemed almost... _ omnipresent _. He shuddered. 

Remembering his promise, fearful of breaking it, and unable to fathom how else to _ be _ , both Aziraphale and Crowley succumbed to photo requests, laughed along with jokes and gave hugs to those that wanted them as people had to depart, without saying very much at all. Every departure was met with fond farewells, each one a stab to Aziraphale’s heart, and yet he couldn’t truly express how he felt without being… _ himself _.

Crowley must have seen the sour look on his face as he thought simultaneously of departures and Gabriel and came over from where he had been lounging on the bench, doing almost as good a job of being Crowley as Curly-Haired Crowley. Hawks, the owner of a splendid Mrs Robinsheen badge and in charge of a professional-looking camera, clicked away, capturing every moment. 

“What’s up, angel? Apart from the obvious…” He gestured to another departing con-goer. “You can’t have that face on you all day. If people think you’re sad a lot, they aren’t going to want to come to the bookshop, now, are they?”

Moved by the fact that Crowley had remembered his concerns about continuing to see their friends (_and steadfastly_ _not thinking about the unreturned declaration of love…_), Aziraphale thought it worth trying again.

“The thing is, dearest, is… as much as I find the thought of agreeing with Gabriel, Registration or otherwise, absolutely abhorrent, she may have a point. If everyone thinks that we are simply ‘in character’, then what happens to us when they find a new television show? Do we get - “

Crowley cut him off. “So, what do you want to do about it? Get back on that bench and do an actual body swap in front of everyone? Get our wings out for all to see? Miracle up some water and wine? Well, that’s more your side than mine…” He frowned.

“We are on our _ own _ side, Crowley. I am not going to do, or say, anything that you don’t agree with, but _ think _, dearest. We do so want to keep these people in our lives for as long as we can… and I think they would understand…?” He gazed imploringly at Crowley.

Registration Gabriel was rounding everyone up for lunch, barking at people to stop taking photos and _ get a move on _. As they moved to join the group leaving the square, Crowley stopped abruptly.

“That would _ really _ piss her off, wouldn’t it? Registration Gabriel.”

“What would?” Azirphale replied, confused.

“If we just… got our bloody wings out! Bam! Can’t tell us to stop being us then!” He was positively gleeful. “The Enterprise isn’t a big pub, either. They would look fucking fantastic in there. I might even stand close enough so that she gets a face full…” Crowley tailed off, serpentine eyes shining.

“Are you… are you saying you _ do _want to tell everyone?” Aziraphale asked, hesitantly.

Crowley took a deep (and unnecessary) breath. “Yeah. Why not? What’s the worst that can happen?” 

********

Aziraphale took a moment in the mizzle outside the Enterprise, looking heavenward and considering a prayer for the right moment to make their announcement - and a good reception. Then, more fearful that Heaven might actually _ hear _him than of fluffing the declaration and causing outright revulsion put together, he sighed and followed in Crowley’s footsteps, pushing open the door of the pub. Some of the congoers were already gathered at the back of the room, creating a pleasant hubbub that reminded Aziraphale of all of the wonderful memories he had made over the days just passed. Some, the group that he knew well, were towards the front, arguing about where to take photos and trying to find out whether any Talisker could be found.

“Hey, Crepes - miracle us some Talisker, would you?” the formerly-pyjama-clad-demon-nun-guitarist-Beelzebub called out, as he found himself a seat next to Crowley.

_ Has Crowley already told them?! _

The shock must have registered on his face, because Crowley rolled his eyes in his direction, simultaneously shaking his head.

As the group went back to badgering the bartender, Crowley leaned over and whispered, “Did you honestly think I’d tell them without you? Did you _ honestly _ think I had _ time _ , in that brief moment, before you came barging in, and that the reactions had _ already died down?! _” Crowley rolled his eyes. 

“Why do they want Talisker?” Aziraphale whispered back, trying to spare his embarrassment. 

A strange expression crossed Crowley’s face, as though an innocent question about whisky had somehow hurt him. His response, “It’s in the show,” seemed inoffensive, though. Curious. 

Deciding it was yet another topic best left for now, Aziraphale picked up a menu. While he excitedly perused the offerings (“I _ do _ enjoy a pork and apple sausage…”), Crowley didn’t even glance at it, gazing instead at Aziraphale with an expression that was fond, but somehow sad. Aziraphale set down the menu. “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah,” Crowley drawled unconvincingly. He glanced down at the menu. “They have mushrooms on brioche toast!”

“Oh, splendid!” Aziraphale gave a happy wriggle. “Best get on and order before the Mushroom Thief gets the last ones again...!”

The corners of Crowley’s lips twitched in a hint of a smile. “Yeah.” Then, with far more tenderness than the situation really warranted, he said, “I’ll take care of it, angel. Can’t have you deprived of your mushrooms again.” Then Crowley leaned over and kissed him so softly that it made Aziraphale’s spine tingle.

Crowley had to climb over Aziraphale to get to the bar; Aziraphale could have stood to let him out, but this way involved _ considerably _more contact and several more stolen kisses. By the time Crowley was slinking over to the bar, Aziraphale was left quite flustered.

Across the table, the Aziraphale of Many Costumes slowly lifted an eyebrow. Aziraphale swallowed and attempted a cheerful smile. “Don’t know what’s got into him,” he said.

Next to the Aziraphale of Many Costumes, Anathemmawww and Wisesnail were engaged in a transaction that involved writing something in a notebook and taking money from a Young Crowley that Aziraphale recognised as the creator of the Taboo game from the night before. Aziraphale turned his attention to the next table, where Curly-Haired Crowley and the Mushroom Thief were having more pictures taken. Aziraphale tried to pay attention, to see if he could work out which scene this was, but the sight of Crowley clutching a bottle of whisky while Aziraphale sat across the table from him was reminiscent of more occasions than he could count…

Aziraphale glanced over towards the bar. Crowley was leaning seductively (to his eyes) and talking to the bartender (Aziraphale was sure he heard the words “_ extra mushrooms _,” which made him smile).

The Curly-Haired Crowley held up the convention programme book, the cover of which was designed to look like _ The Nice and Accurate Prophecies _, and called out, “Souvenir!” while cameras continued to click.

A memory stirred in the back of Aziraphale’s mind. “Excuse me,” he said. Anathemmawww and Wisesnail looked up from their notebook, in which they were furiously scribbling the comments of others...on what, he wasn’t quite sure. “Would I be correct in my presumption that a scene in _ Good Omens _ took place at this establishment?”

The formerly-pyjama-clad-demon-nun-guitarist-Beelzebub pulled up a stool at the end of the table and heaved a sigh. “You need to watch the bloody show,” they grumbled.

“Or read the bloody programme book,” the Mushroom Thief called over from the other table.

“It’s where Crowley came to get drunk when the bookshop burned down,” Wisesnail explained, considerably more helpful than the others. She made a sad face and hugged her plush snake.

“Oh. Thank you, dear.” Aziraphale glanced back towards the bar; Crowley was sauntering towards them, a bottle of wine tucked in his arm and two glasses in hand. 

Aziraphale stood, ostensibly to let Crowley back into his seat, but, as Crowley passed, Aziraphale caught him by the waist and kissed him. With his hands full, all Crowley could do was stand there and allow himself to be quite thoroughly kissed. There were wolf-whistles from around the pub, and Registration Gabriel called out, “Get a room!”

They pulled apart, and Crowley took his seat, looking distinctly flustered. “’s only Malbec,” he muttered, pouring them each a glass.

Aziraphale shuffled close to him, and laid a hand on Crowley’s knee. He wanted to say something, to reassure Crowley that he was definitely here and absolutely alive and real, but he could hardly do so in front of all these humans. He pulled out his phone and tapped out a quick text.

  


He waited while Crowley pulled out his phone and read the message. Crowley didn’t immediately react, just took a long sip of wine. Aziraphale could tell he was making sure no one was paying attention to them. Eventually, Crowley whispered, “It’s fine. Been here lots of times since, just…”

“Just not with me,” Aziraphale finished.

Crowley nodded silently and downed the rest of his wine. As he refilled his glass, he addressed the rest of the table, “Did anyone bring Cards Against Armageddon?”

No one had, but the question served the purpose of starting an animated discussion about the events of the night before, and then of the weekend as a whole. _ Deflecting, again _ , Aziraphale thought, _ but at least he’s not gone vulpine… _

That led Aziraphale into his own reminiscences, though not of a sort that he was about to share with the group. How quickly they’d progressed from an awkward, fumbled kiss in the Bentley to the quite extraordinary revelations of the night before… And there was so much left to try! He would have to make a list…

The rather pleasant meanderings of his thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of his lunch: brioche toast topped with a veritable mountain of mushrooms. He thanked the waitress profusely and caught an envious look from the Mushroom Thief, who appeared to be regretting her sandwich order.

“The day’s looking up,” Crowley remarked. “You got your fungus in the end! Gllad it’s put you in a better mood, angel.” He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand. 

With an excited wriggle, Aziraphale tucked in to his feast. He could feel Crowley watching him intently, but the others were entirely oblivious to them. Wisesnail and Anathemmawww were having a heated but whispered conversation from which Aziraphale only caught the phrase “blatant cheating.” The others were continuing a conversation from the Ineffable Husbands panel. The panel had been one of Aziraphale’s favourites, and he hadn’t even known at the time how close he had been to living the reality!

The topic was the oft-returned-to subject of what happened after the Ritz. In the panel, this had prompted a straightforward answer (“They bang”), but whether that happened for the first time that night, or whether it had already happened the previous night, was up for debate.

It was fun to listen to this conversation now, with memories of passionate encounters with Crowley fresh in his mind, but during the panel itself, it had made him quite melancholy. Apparently, it hadn’t occurred to anyone that perhaps _ neither _ of those scenarios were correct, but that it would take thirty years, a novel, a television show, and a convention, to finally get them over that hurdle.

The formerly-pyjama-clad-demon-nun-guitarist-Beelzebub, for their part, couldn’t even comprehend their waiting longer than the night of Armageddon, in Crowley’s flat. “Yeah,” they were saying, “but don’t forget Crowley’s been in love since _ at least _ Rome…”

“Since the Garden,” said Crowley, almost too quietly to be heard.

Aziraphale felt a chill run through him. “Sorry,” he said, slowly. “What was that?”

Crowley looked taken aback, as though not aware he’d spoken aloud, but then he repeated, looking directly at Aziraphale, “Since the Garden.”

“Well,” Aziraphale gave a nervous laugh. Now was the time to iron out any confusion. Was this the same love he had shared last night, or…? “Certainly there was a - a _ connection _ of sorts, but not…”

Crowley shrugged and sipped his wine. “It’s in every fanfic,” he said evenly.

“Well, yes, but…” Aziraphale tried to take a long gulp of wine, but found his glass empty. He picked up the bottle, but that was empty too. He forced a smile to mask his frustration, both at the empty wine bottle and the ambiguity, and said, “More wine!” and jumped to his feet to head towards the bar.

“Speech, speech!” cried the formerly-pyjama-clad-demon-nun-guitarist-Beelzebub. 

Oh dear. 

The proceeding round of applause turned all eyes on Aziraphale; clearly the formerly-pyjama-clad-demon-nun-guitarist-Beelzebub was not the only one to have mistaken his determination for more alcohol for the desire to take the floor. He could _ feel _ Registration Gabriel’s glare as, _ once again _, he became the centre of attention. Aziraphale panicked. He could hardly sit down; etiquette dictated a speech, for Heaven’s sake! Someone had said, “speech!” 

Was this his chance to reveal their collective hand?

He tested the water.

“Dearly beloved,” he opened his arms, encompassing the room, “and dearly detested,” he nodded at Crowley and dared to seek out Registration Gabriel, who was still glowering. “_ Words are easy, like the wind; faithful friends are hard to find. _ ” A few of the assembled nodded, some with eyes filling with tears. “This weekend has been the most superlative in all of my 6,000 years!” Registration Gabriel moved to stand. Hastily, amid the chuckles, Aziraphale continued. “I know that, for most of you, I am an eccentric, a novelty, an enjoyable interlude on your weekend away.” (Thankfully, Gabe sat down again). “But, to me, each and every one of you is a wonder, someone to treasure and truly precious. I have been welcomed with open arms into your…” (he searched for the right word) “... _ fandom _ and yet, I have - _ we have _ \- concealed a secret from you.” (Gabriel was up again; for Heaven’s sake, this was turning into a veritable hokey cokey!). 

With a deep breath, Aziraphale uttered, “_ Let me be that I am and seek not to alter me. _”

He could feel Crowley, behind him, stand. He could _ feel _ Crowley, because he could _ feel _ love. How had he been so blind? Crowley had been telling him he loved him for _ years _. The words were a mere formality!

With that realisation, Aziraphale looked up as his wings burst free, the very picture of a Principality. He knew, behind him, Crowley’s black wings were mirroring his, creating the Heaven and Hell combination that everyone with a convention goody bag knew so well. “Well,” Hawks drawled, camera clicking furiously. “If they had done _ that _ earlier, they might have won the couples cosplay competition...!”


	18. The Bandstand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The delay to this fic was for a rather lovely reason that we hope you'll forgive us for: life imitated art and War-Crowley, a.k.a. the Mushroom Thief and Registration Gabriel, your authors, are moving in together (albeit to somewhere slightly less picturesque than a cottage in the South Downs..!) and are as in love as War and Gabe can ever be ;) Thanks for your patience and we hope you continue to enjoy the fic!

A sea of faces looked back at Aziraphale and Crowley, their wings outstretched, with barely a raised eyebrow.

Aziraphale’s whole body seemed to stutter. “You’re not… surprised?”

Crowley was already hastily putting away his wings. Aziraphale was too shocked to move.

“Nope. Wisesnail and Anathemmawww have had a book running,” Mags chimed in. “When you’d tell us, that is, not whether it was true.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened as all of the secret conversations between Wisesnail and her partner-in-crime clicked into place. 

“I mean, it would be a breach of GDPR to say what they put on their registration forms,” the Mushroom Thief said, “but…” she rolled her eyes to demonstrate her opinion of their attempts at subtlety.

As seemingly the whole room revelled in Aziraphale’s discomfort, Registration Gabriel placed both hands on the table and stood, slowly, blinking. “Hang on, hang on,  _ hang on _ !” she exclaimed. With an air of authority that would make even R. P. Tyler feel small, Registration Gabriel strode to where the pair stood, still dumbfounded. “ _ Aziraphale _ ,” she said with a sneer, “take those wings off immediately!” 

The former primary school teacher in Registration Gabriel had never been more apparent; although Aziraphale had never attended anything that one might traditionally call ‘school’, he had certainly read about it. Miss Trunchbull immediately sprang to mind and he was nearly compelled to bark out a “Yes, Miss!”

The audience’s eyes hadn’t left the scene. Crowley, wings away, looking sheepish. Aziraphale, wings out, looking chastened. Registration Gabriel, hands on hips, looking fierce. Everyone else, seated, looking… entertained.

“Surely  _ you _ don’t believe this,” Registration Gabriel rounded on the convention co-chair Aziraphale still thought of darkly as the Mushroom Thief.

By way of response, the Mushroom Thief shrugged and took a long sip of cider.

“But… but you’re an atheist!” Registration Gabriel protested.

“I’m also a scientist, and the evidence suggests…” the Mushroom Thief gestured towards Aziraphale’s wings.

Aziraphale was not sure what he had expected. Certainly not a showdown with Registration Gabriel, who was being steered back to her seat by the Mushroom Thief, still mumbling about “charlatans” and “hoodwinkery.” Aziraphale didn’t know how to feel. Everyone knew who he was (and, it would seem, had done for a while). He hadn’t wanted to be deceptive, but he would be lying to himself if he didn’t acknowledge that he would have liked more of a… fanfare. With the wind rather taken out of his sails, Aziraphale, too, began to fold his wings away. “Well, as long as we are all… all right,” he said, somewhat deflated.

“Aww, don’t be sad!” Anathemmawww said, kindly. “It means that we do, and always have, like you for who you are! Both of you!” Her eyes flicked between his and Crowley’s, keen for recognition that all was not lost. 

People were flocking over, asking for a wing feather or two as a souvenir. Despite himself, Aziraphale glanced over at Registration Gabriel, who was now being offered a stiff drink. He could hear strains of, “ _ How did you not know _ ?!” being hollered in her direction and, much to his chagrin, he was pleased that he had shocked at least  _ someone _ .

_ I truly am an ungrateful angel, _ he ruminated.

He picked up his wine glass and took a long, slow drink, never taking his eyes off Crowley and his fan club, marked, now, with a black feather keepsake behind their ears. 

************

The Number 19 bus stopped almost right outside the Enterprise - perhaps that was why that particular pub had become one of Crowley’s regular haunts - and the group was excited to travel to St James’s Park, one of their clearly-not-so clandestine meeting locations.

It felt odd to board the bus  _ with  _ Crowley. Usually they boarded at separate stops, back when they ‘just happened’ to run into each other on the upper deck. There hadn’t been any need for that sort of routine for years now, but long worn-in habits were hard to break in just a few short decades. The upper deck was almost empty, so Aziraphale took a seat by the window and watched Crowley emerge from the stairwell. Even now, it was something of a surprise when Crowley dropped into the seat beside him, instead of heading further back. It was even more of a surprise when Crowley casually took his hand.

“That went well,” Crowley said, looking over at him with a goofy grin.

Aziraphale pursed his lips, trying to go for annoyed, though that was difficult with Crowley’s hand squeezing his. “They could at least have  _ pretended _ to be surprised.”

The Mushroom Thief turned around from the seat in front. “You two are astonishingly bad at subterfuge, you know. How you could have spent milennia fooling Heaven and Hell is… well, my opinion of  _ them _ has gone down considerably this weekend, I can tell you that!”

“It’s true,” Wisesnail added from across the aisle. “You really are bad at this.”

“Honestly, I didn’t realise you were even trying,” said the formerly-pyjama-clad-demon-nun-guitarist-Beelzebub.

“I’m feeling quite ganged-up on here,” said Aziraphale, with a grimace.

“Oh, don’t worry,” said Diminutive Crowley from behind them. “We’re just  _ much _ cleverer than Gabriel and Beelzebub.”

“And this,” said Crowley, loudly enough for the whole group to hear, “ _ this _ is why Diminutive Crowley is my favourite.”

************

The bus ride was a welcome break after the hustle and bustle of the pub, a chance for Aziraphale to gather his thoughts. He could feel the pressure of Crowley’s head on his shoulder as he closed his eyes, just for a second. It had been a long weekend, he thought, and, judging by the contented silence that had fallen over the top deck, the rest of the congoers were in agreement. Despite Crowley not yet having reciprocated in words, Aziraphale was  _ almost  _ sure that he could feel the love radiating from Crowley. At least, that’s what he was going to choose to believe, because the alternative wasn’t worth contemplating.

To bolster his assertion, his thoughts turned to the conversation in the pub.  _ Since the Garden _ , Crowley had said. But he was only referring to fanfiction, of course; the worlds were so muddled now, it was hard to tell where reality ended and fiction began. Aziraphale pursed his lips. It would be even more  _ vivid  _ now, too, reading fanfiction when he knew what it was like to kiss Crowley, to be inside him, even to know what it was like to have a snake -

Crowley jerked awake, startling Aziraphale from his lascivious thoughts.

“Are you all right, dearest?” Aziraphale murmured.

“Mmm.” Crowley yawned, then peered up at Aziraphale over his sunglasses. “I just felt an immense wave of…” He raised an eyebrow. “That was you, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Aziraphale said primly.

“Lust,” the formerly-pyjama-clad-demon-nun-guitarist-Beelzebub waded in. “He felt waves of  _ lust _ .”

The grin Crowley turned on him was enough to lighten the darkening day. 

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale grumbled, looking out of the window in an attempt to hide the flush he could feel burning his cheeks. “ _ Actually _ , I was just thinking that we must be coming up to our stop!” His statement caused a movement en masse, as the group made its way down the stairs, weary but happy.

Strolling through the park hand in hand with Crowley was a new experience, and being surrounded by their new friends was an even more alien feeling. The group was in high spirits despite the drizzle, already talking about their plans for future meetups and conventions.

“Can’t believe you didn’t even do a panel,” the formerly-pyjama-clad-demon-nun-guitarist-Beelzebub griped at them, which prompted a lively debate about what panel they should have done.

“I would go to an entire weekend of you just telling us, like, an extended version of the episode 3 cold open,” said Anathemmawww to widespread agreement.

“I could tell you about a number of occasions on which  _ I  _ rescued this hapless demon from trouble, seeing as  _ those  _ occasions seem to have been missed out of the televisual programming altogether!” Aziraphale declared.

“Nah,” said Crowley, making a face. “No-one’d believe  _ that _ …”

“Look!” Diminutive Crowley cried, “There are  _ people _ on The Bench!” 

At that moment, the couple occupying the bench in question apparently remembered they had urgent business elsewhere. Aziraphale turned a questioning look on Crowley, who responded with a look of unconvincing innocence.

At once, the group ran towards the bench. The Mushroom Thief, hanging back, observed wryly “I can’t believe we have a bunch of tourists who are completely oblivious to Buckingham Palace being  _ right there _ , but go mad over a park bench!”

As Aziraphale watched the group taking photographs on “their” bench, another memory stirred: that red smudge of ice lolly that had taunted him on many occasions in this very park. Slipping quietly away from the group, Crowley occupied with being in photos (and then slightly crestfallen to be replaced by Curly Haired Crowley for “accuracy”), Aziraphale became crestfallen himself when he realised that the ice cream stand was closed. A  _ tiny _ miracle rectified the situation ( _ no worse than emptying a bench _ , mused Aziraphale) and Aziraphale returned to the group with a cluster of 99s (with Flakes, of course), and one red ice lolly.

“Angel, it’s a bit… _ brisk _ ,” Crowley provided his best Aziraphale voice, “for ice creams, no?”

“Don’t be such a party pooper, Crowley,” Aziraphale smiled at the onlooking congoers. Aziraphale took a moment to drink in the surreal situation, before defiantly (and, some would argue, rather provocatively) sucking his Flake. A whooping sound suggested that the gauntlet had been laid down; Crowley tucked into his ice lolly with a gusto that would have made a Chattering Nun blush. 

Performing for their public was something that Aziraphale felt they were becoming increasingly good at, as a...duo. They willingly answered question after question (punctuated with Registration Gabriel coughing “Liar!” at any given opportunity) and were somewhat thankful when the group gradually dwindled, leaving only those they might even be able to call friends (well, and Registration Gabriel…).

Just as Crowley finished the last of his lolly, Aziraphale patted his breast pocket and found the flower and chocolate Crowley had bestowed on him earlier. If their weekend together was some sort of prank, it was certainly elaborate - and, if it  _ was _ a prank, he’d better not waste the opportunities he had now! Aziraphale took the back of Crowley’s neck in his hand and pulled him closer, using just the tip of his tongue to remove the red stain, before a long, languid kiss. 

“I’ve wanted to do that for a very long time,” Aziraphale said, a little breathily. “And now, I have to agree - it  _ is _ rather brisk! Perhaps we should press on?”

Crowley could only manage a mute nod in response, a distinctive blush rising on his cheeks. Aziraphale filed the moment away as a memory to be replayed later, like a favourite record, and headed back to the bus stop, hand in hand with Crowley.

************

The sun was setting by the time they reached Battersea, casting a warm orange glow over the park and lending a distinctly autumnal chill to the air. The walk from the road towards the bandstand, hand in hand with Crowley and surrounded by their new friends, ought to have felt quite pleasant; it certainly had in St James’ Park, and there was the added bonus of no drizzle here! Yet, there was a chill settling in Aziraphale’s chest that had nothing to do with the rapidly cooling English weather.

Crowley must have noticed, because, when the others broke into a run towards the bandstand to take pictures, he tugged on Aziraphale’s arm to hold him back.

“Everything all right, angel?” Crowley said under his breath.

“Oh, yes, I just…” Aziraphale grimaced. “I’m being a big silly, of course, it’s just… Well, I don’t believe I’ve been back here since…”

Crowley made a face as though he was going to dismiss Aziraphale’s anxiety, but then sighed. “Yeah… me neither. Not my most favourite memory…”

Aziraphale felt a physical shudder overcome him as he recalled, all too vividly, the sight of Crowley walking away from him.  _ It’s over _ , he’d said back then… A glance to his left suggested Crowley was recalling that same evening with no more enthusiasm.

Distantly, Aziraphale was aware that the others were calling them over, eager for photos.  _ Buck up, Aziraphale _ . He took a deep breath and squeezed Crowley’s hand. “Well,” he said, as brightly as he could manage, “no point dwelling on the past. Things are rather different now, of course!”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed hesitantly.

“We’re on our own side now,” Aziraphale added, as much to himself as to Crowley, so he was decidedly taken aback when Crowley’s response was to pull him into an exceedingly passionate kiss.

“Oi, you two!” Registration Gabriel’s yell was like iced water on a roaring fire. “Kindly save that for later - your  _ fanclub  _ wants photos!”

Reluctantly, they broke apart, although their hands remained firmly clasped as they made their way over to the ornate bandstand. The Mushroom Thief, dressed as a ( _ too short _ , Aziraphale pouted in satisfaction) Aziraphale, was posing with Curly Haired Crowley, while a group gathered around a phone displaying the relevant scene from the television show, directing to line up the shot perfectly.

“I was standing on that side,” said Aziraphale, unable to resist being helpful, despite the incredible awkwardness of the situation.

“It was filmed this way round,” Young Crowley insisted, holding up the phone.

Faced with the scene in all of its accuracy, Aziraphale was suddenly reminded of the video montages that had been shown on the Saturday evening of the convention. That was the only time he’d seen this part of the show… The thought of the video that Crowley had made, in particular, occupied his thoughts sufficiently that the photoshoot was able to continue without any further corrections.

Until, that is, he was finally called forward, and then  _ dragged _ forward, by Crowley himself, who was wearing a resigned look that said  _ let’s get this over with _ as the assembled crowd readied their cameras.

Automatically, Aziraphale moved to the side where he remembered standing on that fateful day so many years ago, but a chorus of “No, over there!” erupted from the crowd. Grumbling about cinematic inaccuracies, yet secretly thankful to have something else to focus his thoughts on, Aziraphale rearranged himself on the opposite side of the bandstand. Perhaps it was better this way; he wouldn’t be looking down the precise path where Crowley had walked away from him…

Crowley took up his position, directed by the cacophony of photographers, with his arms outstretched.

No, definitely not better.

Desperately looking for an alternative, his eyes alighted on the Mushroom Thief. Perhaps he could forgive her earlier transgressions, befriend her so that she could take his place… but no, she appeared to be rather occupied with Registration Gabriel at present…

Pulling a face, he turned his attention back to Crowley, who looked every bit as uncomfortable as he felt. With a shrug, Crowley ventured, “So how about it, angel? Alpha Centauri?”

Their audience was watching with bated breath, cameras at the ready. The attention emboldened Aziraphale, who replied nervously, “Well, we already attended War-Crowley’s Alpha Centauri talk yesterday…”

The erstwhile War-Crowley’s attention was torn away from Registration Gabriel for a moment and she gave him what looked like an almost genuine smile. Another reason for Aziraphale to finally let her mushroom thievery go… eventually.

Crowley was still standing across from him, arms outstretched, head cocked in question. Aziraphale realised his answer hadn’t been terribly clear, and he tried again: “Although, of course, my dear, I would be delighted to go anywhere with you.”

That was the answer the assembled crowd wanted, if the ensuing outpouring of  _ ahhs  _ and  _ awws  _ was any guide, but Aziraphale’s attention was fixed firmly on Crowley. The light was fading now, and the lampposts that surrounded the bandstand had flickered on. In the dim light, and behind those confounded glasses, it was difficult to read Crowley’s expression, but he was staring intently at Aziraphale as he lowered his arms. He moved towards Aziraphale, who found himself entirely frozen to the spot.

“Not Alpha Centauri, then,” said Crowley, almost prowling now. “The South Downs?”

There was a chorus of delighted squeals from around them. Aziraphale swallowed hard and tried to ignore their audience as he said, “Certainly. A picnic, perhaps?”

Crowley’s step appeared to falter for just a moment, a look of uncertainty drifting across his face.

“Or… more than a picnic?” Aziraphale ventured. The audience he had been playing to seemed to vanish from his peripheral vision. All he could see was Crowley, standing right in front of him, Crowley, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. He swallowed hard and summoned the boldness to add, “A cottage, perhaps?”

There was the briefest of moments when Crowley looked almost awestruck, as though he had been handed the world on a platter. All too soon, thought, he collected himself and shrugged with an air of exaggerated coolness. “I mean, sure, if you want to…”

Aziraphale hesitated. “I’m afraid I would need rather a lot of bookshelf space…”

A hint of a smile twitched at the corners of Crowley’s mouth. “I know just the place…” He fished his phone out of his pocket and swiped around for a bit, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth. Aziraphale forgot to breathe while he watched, waiting to see what Crowley was looking for.

At last, Crowley held up his phone, first triumphant, but then with a look of uncertainty creeping over his face. “See what you think…”

Aziraphale took the phone. At first he wasn’t sure what he was looking at, but then he blinked and it came into focus: a cottage that looked as though it were lifted from a postcard. The thatched roof, the blue sky, the quintessentially English rose garden; it was so picture-perfect it could have been a Wisesnail painting. “Oh,” was all he could manage to say.

“‘S got a library,” Crowley said with a nonchalant shrug. “ _ Miraculously _ large, you might say.”

Aziraphale handed back the phone. “You’ve been here?”

Crowley shoved the phone back into his pocket and looked down at his feet. He kicked casually at the ground. “Bought it,” he mumbled.

“You bought it,” Aziraphale repeated.

“Years ago. Whim.”

That took Aziraphale a moment to process. Dimly, he was aware of excited chatter rising around them and that this was a  _ terrible _ time and place for this conversation. A lightbulb moment: “Wait. You said that Pepper created the idea of the cottage, at a convention?”

“Pepper is dead to me,” Crowley grumbled, without real malice.

“So you told her…?”

“Yeah,” Crowley sighed and stared up at the sky as though hoping for some reprieve from an albeit unlikely source. “I was drunk, all right?” His voice rising in a crescendo, he added, “I had this ridiculous idea you might want to move there one day. With me. So I bought this place and made it all perfect but I didn’t know how to ask you, and so it’s just been sitting there empty and I go down there occasionally to keep the roses in line but - “

“I would be terrible to live with,” Aziraphale interrupted his rambling. “I get absorbed in books and disappear for days, I leave half-drunk cups of cocoa all over the place…”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed. “I know the feeling now, I’ve fallen into fanfic for days...”

“Our tastes in furnishings are… somewhat opposed…”

“You mean that only one of us has taste.”

“If you think I’m curling up to read in that… that  _ throne _ of yours,” Aziraphale huffed.

“You are  _ not _ bringing a tartan sofa into our house,” Crowley groaned.

“I most certainly am.”

“And no gramophones, it’s the twenty-first century.”

“Oh, the gramophone will go  _ splendidly _ next to the tartan sofa.” Aziraphale gave a delighted wriggle.

“I regret everything about this already.”

“Oh, and is there a kitchen?” Aziraphale mused aloud “I’ve been thinking about learning to bake…”

“On second thoughts, I might go back to Hell,” Crowley sighed.

“And, of course, of  _ course _ ,” Aziraphale’s eyes widened, “we will need to look up the local village fete so that I can entertain…” His hand waved in memory of his love of magic tricks. 

“You are the  _ worst _ ,” said Crowley. “The absolute worst. I love you.”

Aziraphale smiled brightly. “Of course you do.”

In a whirlwind of black, Aziraphale found himself gathered into a passionate kiss. As he reciprocated with enthusiasm, he was distantly aware of excited squeals and the clicks of cameras all around them.


	19. The After Times

Home. Aziraphale gave a contented sigh, replacement wing mug in hand, as he placed his copy of the Good Omens script book on the shelf that housed his most prized collections. Aziraphale’s adventures of the past few days felt as far away as Alpha Centauri as he settled into his chair, eyes finding his serpentine artwork that he had miracled into place as soon as he got back, and a smile finding its way to his lips. He snuggled into his chair, sipping cocoa that was  _ just  _ the right temperature, and allowed himself the luxury of a few moments of contemplation.

After the… it could only be called  _ ineffable _ time at the bandstand, the group had retreated to the warmth of a local pub. Wisesnail and Anathemmawww had graciously bought a round with their ill-gotten sweepstake gains, placing a substantial bottle of red between Aziraphale and Crowley with a sheepish look. Registration Gabriel was being ignored, refusing, as she was, to join in with the conversation, preferring to cling limpet-like to the Mushroom Thief. Aziraphale had offered to read one of his fics, which, along with a hearty portion of garlic bread, went down a storm, even if he did gloss over the NSFW parts to spare the blushes of the other clientele that had already enquired as to whether they were part of a “book club.” Aziraphale’s smile broadened as he remembered Crowley’s disappointment that he wouldn’t get to hear Aziraphale’s sex noises being read out in public, and his subsequent blush as Aziraphale suggested they make a break for the gents at once…

Saying goodbye to their new friends had been hard, with hugs for those that wanted them and hearty “Oi Shems” for those that preferred otherwise. Saying goodbye to each other, though… well, that was something different entirely.

By the flickering light of Soho’s neon signs, they had stood in the doorway of the bookshop, kissing like teenagers, holding each other like long-lost friends, looking into each other’s eyes like… like they had for millenia. Aziraphale recalled Crowley gripping his hand just a little too tightly as he broke away and, despite everything that had gone before, both this weekend and in times past, Aziraphale had braced himself. 

Somewhat unexpectedly, it was Crowley who murmured,  _ “Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.”  _

Aziraphale laughed now, as he had laughed then; Crowley was no reader and he would warrant that a quick browse of his search history would reveal “Shakespeare goodbye quotes.” The thought, though... Aziraphale’s heart was full of Crowley and, having watched him speed off into the night in his Bentley, there was no place left for doubts.

Opening his eyes, a smile still writ large on his face, Aziraphale drained the last of his cocoa and consulted his pocket watch. The night had ended more chastely than those most recently; Crowley was keen to see his plants and Aziraphale was keen to have tea that had not come out of a machine. They had both seemed a little guilty at these admissions, until Aziraphale had reminded them both that they did, indeed, have the rest of their lives. So they had said their goodnights, kissed some more (and then, some more), before Aziraphale had settled down with the aforementioned cocoa to indulge himself in writing about  _ exactly _ what the rest of their lives might look like. He had hardly thought it worth miracling his old crate of a computer back into existence; if he was going to keep in touch with his new friends and update his readers with his new… findings, he may as well miracle the latest equipment!

Aziraphale checked for the eleventh time that the bookshop sign read “Closed”, moved to his computer and waited for the knock on the door. 

************

It had been light outside for a while when the knock came; Aziraphale was hardly keeping track of time, having had a productive night in which he had updated three of his fics and left comments on half a dozen more written by his new friends. This time, when the bell rang, there was no need to banish his computer from existence - quite the opposite, he hoped that Crowley would also enjoy his writing and they might use it for some... inspiration…

“Angel!” he heard Crowley call from the bookshop.

“In here, dearest,” Aziraphale replied, turning a beaming smile towards the door of the back room, waiting for Crowley’s arrival.

The look on Crowley’s face as he crossed the threshold was not the one that Aziraphale had been hoping for. Not quite anger per se, but a level of consternation had furrowed Crowley’s brow and pursed Crowley’s lips: of that, Aziraphale was certain. He stood, ready to smooth away his worries with a kiss.

“Right! Well!” Crowley blustered, as Aziraphale moved towards him. “Before you do any of… that” (he gestured to Aziraphale’s outstretched arms) “we need to have a little parley!”

Aziraphale allowed the start of a smile. “Must we, dear?” he replied, caressing the back of Crowley’s neck. 

“I’ve had a notification this morning that there’s been an update on,” Crowley swallowed “Serpentine Desiresss - “

Aziraphale kissed him - just a peck, but the title of his fic sounded so sublime with an actual serpentine hiss that he just couldn’t help himself. 

Crowley practically batted him away. “Now… see here!” 

Aziraphale thought Crowley was truly at his loveliest when he was trying to be serious. He took a deep breath, suppressed his smile and tried to look like he was listening intently.

“I got a notification! From AO3! ” Crowley was still speaking in exclamations, it would seem. Aziraphale tentatively steered him towards the sofa and sat down, with Crowley, bolt upright, next to him. 

Crowley took a deep breath. “Your author’s note, angel! ‘The opportunity to conduct further research on… snake anatomy!’” The breath that Crowley was holding exploded forth.

Aziraphale had the temerity to chuckle, before Crowley continued, “Ground rules, angel. Ground. Rules. We can’t have every detail of the next 6,000 years of our...of our... _ sex life _ on AO3!”

“That’s a little rich, my dear,” Aziraphale pouted, with no malice behind his words, “considering the TV show that  _ you _ shared details of our lives for is a veritable sensation!”

Crowley looked baffled. “But there are no… details in there, angel, now, are there? I’m not talking about anyone’s… anatomy, just conversations, and places, and…” Crowley tailed off, perhaps knowing this was not an argument he could win.

Aziraphale’s rejoinder, that it could be argued that Crowley’s memories were even  _ more _ personal than those that were contained within Aziraphale’s fic, sealed the conversation as closed, and he swiped a celebratory croissant from the box Crowley had burst in with.

“You can’t be that cross with me, dear, if you are delivering prandial delights!” Aziraphale smiled. 

“Well…” Crowley sighed, resignedly, before smiling at Aziraphale. “I’m never so cross with you that I’d deny you breakfast, am I?”

Aziraphale leaned over and placed a kiss firmly on Crowley’s lips. It felt different, their first kiss inside the bookshop, a place they had been in together for decades, and yet it felt like nothing had changed at all.

It didn’t take long at all for the tension in Crowley’s body to seep away as the kiss deepened, and soon Aziraphale found himself with a lapful of writhing demon and some delightful friction that was pushing all thought of croissants far from Aziraphale’s mind. The rest of their lives they may have, but that didn’t mean there was any need to waste the time they had  _ right now _ , and, well, if Aziraphale was going to be upping sticks and moving to the countryside soon anyway, what was another day with the “Closed” sign showing on the bookshop?

“My dear,” Aziraphale murmured into Crowley’s ear between intermittent kisses along his jawline, “would you be amenable to -”

“Yes,” Crowley groaned before he could finish.

“Why, you don’t know what I was going to say!”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Crowley. “Anything you want, angel. Anything.”

Aziraphale sat back, putting distance between them that elicited a distinct pout from Crowley. He forced his most impassive expression and said, “What if I wanted your assistance with dusting all the books?”

“You haven’t dusted these books in a hundred years,” Crowley growled.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale agreed, and kissed him again. It was a useful way to shut him up, he’d learned; if only he’d figured out this trick years ago! “In that case, how do you feel about nudity?”

Crowley grabbed his shoulders and pulled him in for a bruising kiss. “I am pro-nudity.”

With more kissing came more writhing, and it wasn’t long before Aziraphale felt he was ready to burst out of his suddenly-too-tight trousers. Summoning angelic reserves of strength, he hooked his hands under Crowley’s thighs and stood. Crowley’s legs wrapped around his waist and he undulated maddeningly. With stilted, staggering movements, Aziraphale moved them both towards the nearest solid surface, which just so happened to be the prized shelf of first editions, now with bonus  _ Quite Nice and Fairly Accurate Good Omens Script Book _ . With Crowley braced against the shelves, Aziraphale’s hands were free to roam up and down lean thighs and under Crowley’s shirt to the smooth skin beneath. They hardly broke the kiss the whole time, though their breathing came in increasingly ragged pants, and delightfully erratic noises (which Aziraphale may or may not have filed away for future fics) began to emerge from Crowley’s throat.

Aziraphale pressed their hips together, seeking friction, and it felt exquisite. He could feel that Crowley was as hard as he was, and the mere fact of being allowed to know how that felt sent a thrill coursing through him.

The sounds emanating from Crowley were becoming more incoherent and his hands more erratic; he grasped widely for Aziraphale’s shirt, then grabbed at the shelf behind him, then tangled his hands in Aziraphale’s hair. Aziraphale tilted his head and began to press kisses along Crowley’s jaw and down his throat, punctuated with murmured declarations of love. With one hand, he began to work on the buttons of Crowley’s trousers; as ridiculously tight as they were, he  _ had _ to allow himself a minor miracle. He gently coaxed Crowley’s legs down from around his waist - the demon could be  _ startlingly _ cooperative when it came to facilitating nudity, Aziraphale was learning. It took both of them to wrestle the offending trousers over Crowley’s hips, but soon they were around his knees.

There was a considerable tent to Crowley’s red silk underwear, which Aziraphale caressed lightly with just the tips of his fingers. “Sticking with the red, are we?”

“Don’t you like it?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that…”

As though to demonstrate his appreciation, Aziraphale dropped to his knees and mouthed at the firm outline of Crowley’s erection. He heard a distinct thunk as Crowley’s head fell back against the shelf, and felt long, thin fingers clench in his hair. He carefully ( _ carefully… _ ) lifted Crowley’s underwear over his cock and pushed them down. Crowley arched his back, nudging at Aziraphale’s lower lip with the tip of his cock. Aziraphale glanced upwards and caught Crowley’s eyes looking back at him with undeniable hunger. He gave the head of Crowley’s cock a slow, deliberate lick without breaking eye contact, and, in return, Crowley let out a long, low hiss. There was no holding back after that; Aziraphale took the entire length into his mouth and sucked hard. Crowley cried out and his hips jerked, as Aziraphale slid a hand around to his arse and pulled him forward, encouraging him to thrust. Soon Crowley was thrusting with abandon unbecoming of a creature of Heaven, Hell or Earth… not that either of them minded.

It was strange now to think how long they’d held back from this, given how natural it felt. Aziraphale could feel the love pouring off Crowley; it was like heat prickling at his skin from the inside. No doubt Crowley could feel his lust, too - it was flooding out of him in waves.

All too soon, Aziraphale felt Crowley pull urgently at his shoulders, tugging him upright. Aziraphale glanced up, encouraging him, but Crowley shook his head. Releasing Crowley’s cock with an unangelic (but rather tantalising) slurp, Aziraphale sat back on his haunches and tilted his head in question.

“Not yet,” Crowley gasped. He made a flailing gesture and directed, “Up here!”

Aziraphale allowed himself to be pulled to his feet and, suddenly feeling that there was entirely too much fabric between them, he assisted with his trousers and then turned his attention to Crowley’s shirt. Soon they were pressed against each other from shoulder to thigh, with no more barriers between them - in so many ways. For a while, Aziraphale was distracted by kissing along Crowley’s collarbone and enjoying being able to run his hands up and down bare skin, but a slight shift of his hips caused Crowley’s erection to slide against his own and a sense of urgency began to build.

“Get on with it,” Crowley groaned.

“Right, right,” Aziraphale muttered, sliding a hand around Crowley’s waist, tracing from the small of his back and down to the cleft of his arse.

Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders and Aziraphale lifted him off the floor, legs entwined around his waist. It required another minor miracle to hold him in that position, but it was worth it: Crowley canted his hips forward and Aziraphale felt the head of his cock brush against the opening of Crowley’s arse. He reached around with his hand, but Crowley shook his head. “Just do it, it’s fine.” The urgency in Crowley’s voice was passionate... raw. 

This was a miracle Aziraphale was quite enjoying practising, and one a part of him would dearly love to receive a strongly worded note from Gabriel about. He chuckled at the thought of Gabriel chastising him for frivolously lubricating his demon lover…

“What’s so funny, angel?”

“Oh…” Aziraphale hesitated, only just catching up to how his thoughts were straying. “Ah… I was just imagining Gabriel’s reaction if he got notified of my use of miracles lately…”

“Hmpf,” Crowley grunted. “If it’s all the same with you, I’d rather you didn’t think about your former boss while you had your fingers inside me.”

“My apologies, dearest,” Aziraphale kissed him gently and withdrew his fingers.

“Hang on!” Crowley protested, “I didn’t mean stop!”

Aziraphale smiled, positioning himself to show Crowley that he had no intention of stopping, not now, not in 6,000 years, not ever. “Ready?”

Crowley nodded, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. Aziraphale pressed forward gently, feeling a slight resistance, before he felt Crowley’s body yield to him as he slid inside, the way miraculously slick (all thoughts of Gabriel vanished...). He gave a few gentle thrusts, probing deeper each time, until he was pressed inside as far as he could go. Crowley’s hands tangled in his hair; in return, he collapsed forwards against Crowley, burying his face against the demon’s neck.

“Ngk,” said Crowley.

“Ngk indeed,” Aziraphale agreed. He shivered a little as he pulled partly out, teasing, then slammed back home, in every sense of the word. He took Crowley in hand, enjoying the jolt that coursed through Crowley’s body at the touch, building up to a steady rhythm. He thrust into Crowley’s body, moving his hand on his cock in time, while heat built inside him, his own passion intermingling with the sensation of Crowley’s love.

All too soon, that heat became an urgent need and he was pounding Crowley into the bookshelf, not giving a thought to the entirely frivolous miracle it took to keep him from hitting his head against the edge of a shelf (although an idle thought may have made its way in as to whether any fic writers had considered that inconvenience…). When he came, it was gasping Crowley’s name. Crowley followed him over the edge, murmuring, “Angel” over and over into Aziraphale’s neck. 

Afterwards, they lay, entwined and messy, on the sofa. As Aziraphale’s thoughts gradually emerged from the fog of lust, he remembered himself enough to comment, “You’re not a snake.”

“No wings,” Crowley observed in response.

“Are we losing our touch?” Aziraphale wondered.

“No chance,” Crowley scoffed. “That was  _ way _ better than I ever thought it could be.”

“Quite worth the wait,” Aziraphale agreed. “We can save the wings, and the… snaking for special occasions. Like… Wednesdays.” He stared pointedly at his new painting. 

They kissed, rolling around on the narrow sofa until Crowley was sprawled out on top of Aziraphale, just as they read and written on countless occasions. After a fashion, Crowley lifted himself onto his elbows and gave Aziraphale a considering look. “You know, angel,” he said. “I think we have our fic to update.”


	20. The Epilogue

“All I’m saying is, you’d better ask me to be a bridesmaid! It took bloody years of work and a £36 million TV show to get you two together! It was worth it, right? Right?!” Pepper sloshed her Talisker in Aziraphale and Crowley’s direction. She was nothing if not... persistent.

Aziraphale laughed. “Well, that is as may be, but we are not committing to a second series!”

Pepper sat up a little straighter. “Second series, you say? Why, what an excellent idea! _‘Great Expectations’_, we’d call it. No… wait,” She shook her head. “I reckon that’s taken.” She took a swig. “_‘A Tale of Two Celestial Harmoniesssss’_.”

Crowley scowled.

Pepper sat across from the pair at The Enterprise, on one of their frequent trips back to London from their cottage in the South Downs for what had become their regular Thursday night drinking session. They had moved into the cottage shortly after the convention, a vibrant yellow clematis that Aziraphale later found out was called “My Angel” gracing their collective front door and a sign that read “Temptation Accomplished” hung above it.

The bookshop was still very much a part of their lives; the Fiends, as they had come to name their new friendship group (the reasons for which were lost in the midsts of time) took care of it on rotation, opening it at weekends for cosplay shoots and meet ups. BookshopCon was just around the corner and Aziraphale couldn’t wait - he would be cosplaying Gabriel.

Crowley was still scowling.

Pepper was still talking.

“...never actually thought you’d live there! Even after Crowley bought the place I thought he’d never get up the nerve to ask you - “

She paused to wiggle her eyebrows. Crowley continued to scowl.

“So, series 2… or, boring domesticity? _Baking with Aziraphale_? Crowley fronting _Gardener’s World_? I don’t think I can quite hit the heady heights of _Tiger King_ with one snake and an ‘Azira-dove’, but we could try…?”

“Actually, my dear,” began Aziraphale, “we have decided to write a series of our own…”

A smile crept onto Crowley’s face, as demonic as Aziraphale had ever seen him.

“Well more of a collection, really. Our fics and few more besides. I hear there’s a rather marvellous Pepper/Brian tag that we really must consider including...” He paused to look at Pepper’s furious face. “Honestly, dear, don’t worry - we promise we won’t include anything quite so incendiary as ‘I know what you smell like’...”

Crowley’s diabolical chuckle could be heard across the pub as Pepper launched herself across the table at Aziraphale, who deftly caught her drink as it made a break for the floor. They drank long into the night, toasting each other with a camaraderie - nay, a love - that would last far beyond the next 6,000 years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BLATANT PLUG: If you have enjoyed hearing about The Ineffable Con and some of its...characters, The Ineffable Con 2 (completely online!) is now [ open for registrations! ](https://theineffablecon.org.uk/index.php)
> 
> Thank you, so much, for reading <3


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